


The Oncoming Storm

by Diana_Prallon



Series: A Time of Jedis [2]
Category: Merlin (TV)
Genre: Action & Romance, Action/Adventure, After Camlann Merlin Big Bang, Alternate Universe - Star Wars Fusion, Alternate Universe - Star Wars Setting, Angst, BAMF Merlin, Clone Wars, Crossovers & Fandom Fusions, Inspired by a Movie, Jedi, M/M, Slow Build, Star Wars - Freeform, jedi order
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-09-19
Updated: 2017-09-19
Packaged: 2018-12-31 15:51:07
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 15
Words: 133,914
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12135822
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Diana_Prallon/pseuds/Diana_Prallon
Summary: The only thing the Republic isn't ready for, is war. Everything in their power is being done to appease the systems that have joined the Separatist Movement, to try and keep the peace among all. The Jedi Knights have been sent all over the Galaxy, trying to solve conflicts and stop more and more planets from leaving the Republic, with mixed success.King Arthur Pendragon of Camelot, however, doesn't believe that avoiding war will be that easy and has devised a scheme to help boost the Republic's defenses -- if he can survive the many attempts on his life and remain hidden under the custody of Jedi Padawan Merlin long enough for his master, Mordred, to figure out who is behind the attempts.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Ok, this is a long one:
> 
> First of all, I'd like to thank the wonderful mods of ACBB - you've all done a wonderful job, and it helps keeping our fandom alive and shiny. I'm so proud to be part of this. S2
> 
> I'd also like to thank the people that made this fic possible - namely, Dark K (who's responsible for this verse as a whole), and MoonFlower who so patiently cheered me on and edited bunches of this to make it readable. There are, however, many mistakes still and they're all mine. Sorry! 
> 
> Two important notes: 
> 
> -> This is a Star Wars fusion, but if you've never seen SW, no problem. Things are a bit different in this verse, though a lot is the same.
> 
> -> This is the 2nd part of a series, but you can read it as a stand-alone. If you're interested, part one is [here](http://archiveofourown.org/works/8234542/chapters/18871372). 
> 
> Finally, please forgive my many mistakes.

 

The landing platform seemed absolutely calm, as if nothing abnormal was about to happen. The pilot felt his heart calm a bit as his fighter landed on the platform. Opening the dome, he jumped out of it without bothering with the ladder. Meanwhile, his I2 unit — which was still the very same one that had, long ago, helped a young Merlin  to destroy the Federation Ship that had kept them isolated — lowered itself to the floor. Under no circumstances would Arthur admit to have taken a liking to the little hunk of tin. The main ship — the royal cruiser from Camelot, upon which he was supposed to be, was still approaching to land, but Elyan was already out of his fighter on the other side of the platform. As Arthur approached him, the captain took of his helmet — the king’s still in place for security reasons — and Elyan smiled at him.

 

“They were wrong,” he said, as the flagship landed swiftly and the ramp lowered. “There was no danger after all.”

 

Arthur didn’t even dare to nod, his heart twisting in his chest as he watched Owain — handsome and mainly, wearing Arthur’s cape and Arthur’s crown, with Arthur’s chainmail on his body, making him look bigger than he was. They were not similar, not really, but they _were_ the same size and had the same body shape, which was the reason why he had been chosen (against Arthur’s express wishes) to be his decoy. It felt dishonourable to him, to use deceits such as this — against the Knight’s Code, and against everything he believed. However, he had been _forced_ to do it, while the council and the whole alliance, really, reminded him once again how he _didn_ _’t_ have a heir. There was no one who could take his place. The whole situation was already precarious, as for the first time in more years than they cared to count, they had a non-royal, namely Aredian, representing them at the Senate.

 

He merely watched as Owain descended, Ranulf and Bedivere behind him, and he was almost ready to let out a breath of relief when it happened.

 

There was no warning, simply a huge explosion, shaking the whole ground and Arthur would have lost his footing if he weren’t a warrior. Owain was sent flying through the air, and blood splattered them all as the royal cruiser went up in flames, tilting dangerously and finally falling off the back of the landing platform and down towards Coruscant lower levels. Arthur barely noticed it, all of his thoughts were focused on his people. Pushing up his helmet, Arthur rushed to Owain’s side: his young knight was coughing blood, legs gone.

 

“Owain!” he called, kneeling and putting his hands on his man’s head, but he knew, without a shadow of doubt, it was too late.

 

“I’ve failed you,” Owain coughed again, more blood coming out, and Arthur just shook his head.

  
“You’ve saved me,” Arthur countered, running his hand through the man’s hair. “I own you my life.”

 

“I did…” his breath was ragged, and his face was beyond pale as blood rushed out of his body, but his eyes shone with glory, “my duty.”

 

“Yes,” Arthur agreed, fighting against the emotions inside him to give this man some peace. “You honoured your knight’s mantle.”

 

“Proud?” he asked, with something of a smile, but by the time Arthur managed an answer, there was no life in him anymore.

 

“So proud…” Arthur said, his voice half-dead, and he lowered himself to rest his forehead against Owain’s cooling brow. Rage surged in him — he had chosen Owain, and trained him, and made him a man of honour; but also a man of duty, and now because of it he was lifeless on the ground. Perhaps the worst of all, he was _grateful_ to be dead as long as his King lived. And why? Because Arthur had dared to go beyond what was expected in order to protect his people? How could _serving_ be considered such a terrible thing as to be greeted with death? But, no — only someone whose own plans were at risk because of Arthur’s plans would do such a thing. He trembled, feeling the tears that he’d never shed burning behind his eyelids and wondered if it was all worth Owain’s life — the loss of his joy, of his honesty, of his hard work. And yet, how could it compare to the millions of lives that could be saved if Arthur’s plans came to fruition?

 

“You’re still not safe,” Elyan reminded him, seeming grim and determined at once. “Come.”

 

There was no need to be called twice. He would not, could not, let this sacrifice be in vain. Standing up quickly, he donned his helmet once again and left the platform, hoping against all logic that this would be the last of it.

 

* * *

 

 

He was just getting impatient. He knew better than most — better than anyone — the importance of listening to the Jedi Council members, but it was always a bit oppressive to have _all twelve of them_ gathered around like that. He kept his face fixed in a smooth mask of indifference; and sat silent and quiet in his seat in the corner, but they _just kept insisting_. Worse, from any logical point of view, their reasoning didn’t even make sense. One second, they were speaking _against_ a Standing Army for the Republic, and in the next second, they were bemoaning their losses and their inability to deal with it by themselves.

 

It was very clear that Uther was getting impatient, too. His friend never had the _true_ talent for politics. He was a man of action, and all this talking was wearing him thin. It hadn’t been easy, getting him acquainted with the finest points of intergalactic policy and the workings of the Senate when he had first stepped in his younger brother’s shoes, almost thirteen years before. In contrast, Aredian had long grown quite adapt at political manoeuvring. After twenty years serving Camelot from Coruscant, a great part of it as late Ambrosius’ junior aid, Aredian had grown to throughly master the rules of the game. He had always quite liked Uther, and always, since they were young, the two had shared many similar views and philosophies. It had eased the burden of instructing the former king in the intricacies of the Galactic Senate.

 

Still, very few things were more likely to annoy his old friend more than Jedi — apart, probably, from old Gaius — and a whole group of them only made matters worse. It was clear, now, that he could barely wait for the audience to be over in the way he kept glancing at Master Gaius while Master Aufric, a particularly pale Vuk who had won renown as a pilot, spoke about some of the latest border disputes. Master Kilgharrah sat as still and calm as ever, his golden eyes focused on the traffic outside the window, not speaking much. He seemed to be, as usual, in deep contemplation. Master Deaton, on the other hand, seemed concerned, his very human face giving his emotions away. Battlemaster Ruadan also looked tense, eyes moving from one side of the conversation to the other, and Master Gaius had his wrinkled face twisted by his risen eyebrows, but this was such a constant in his face, that it didn’t mean much, even for those who, like Aredian, had long known him.

 

“I don’t know how much longer I can hold off the voting,” Uther said, with a sharp movement of his hands. “More and more start systems are joining the Separatists, and ever closer to the Inner Rim. People are impatient — they are waiting for the Senate’s decision.”

 

“If they do break away…” Master Deaton started, his voice calm but, but with the smallest hint of reproach, and Uther would not stand for it.

 

“I _will not_ let this Republic, which has stood for thousands of years be split in two!” He announced, closing his hand in a fist, as if it were an ultimatum he could indeed make, as if his sheer willpower would hold all systems together in a single cohesive unit. _This_ was the strength and presence that had caused the Senate first to claim for Uther as their leader and then to vote for him again once his first time was up. “My negotiations _will not_ fail.”

 

There was no hint of doubt in his voice, even if anger was clear. Looking at the steel shining underneath his face, Aredian could well believe it — if anyone could keep them all together, it would be Uther. Hadn’t he managed to keep the whole of Albion safe, without any help from his fellow rulers and little resources when it seemed it would all break away?

 

“If they do,” continued Master Deaton, showing more of a Jedi’s fabled patience than he usually did, and ignoring the emotions that were rolling off the chancellor. “You must realise that there aren’t enough Jedi to protect the Republic. We are keepers of the peace, not soldiers.”

 

Uther shot a look to Gaius, then, before turning his eyes to the Grand Master of the Jedi Order.

 

“Master Kilgharrah, do you really believe it will come to war?”

 

His voice was almost friendly in reaching to the dragon-like creature, and still Aredian could feel how little Uther trusted him. For all his politics, hiding or lying from a Jedi was no easy trick, specially one as accomplished as Master Kilgharrah, who seemed to have just acknowledged their presence around him, as if they were beneath his notice. The calm dignity that bordered on arrogance was part of the reason why Uther and the Grandmaster had never seen eye to eye.

 

“The Dark Side clouds everything,” he announced, in his usual authoritative drawl. “The future is _not_ that clearly seen under these circumstances.”

 

Uther scowled at this, as he would often do when answers were not as direct as he’d like them to be, turning towards Master Taliesin, and the Iktochi shrugged.

 

“There have been… No clear sightings, sire.”

 

“Morgana…” Uther started, ever worried, and the Jedi rose his hand in a calming gesture.

 

“Is by far our most talented seer, but even her cannot see through the veil of the darkness — not clearly enough as to be of any help, at least.”

 

Uther nodded, accepting the answer, although it was clear he didn’t like it. Aredian was truly thankful for the hologram that popped up immediately after that, showing Uther’s secretary, who bowed before he started speaking.

 

“Your Honor, His Majesty King Arthur is here.”

 

“Good,” Uther answered, with an real smile, moving from politician to proud parent in a second. “Send him in.” He turned back to the Jedi High Council, still smiling. “I’m sorry,” he said, although no one could have believed him to be anything but thrilled to be seeing his child after a long absence. “We will have to discuss this matter later.”

 

Uther’s clear and unquestionable love for his children was probably one of his most endearing characteristics, and there was _no one_ , save the children themselves, that may say anything but the most glowing things about his feelings for them. The clear relief and joy in his face upon seeing Arthur walk inside made most of the council members smile, and Aredian himself could not be completely untouched by it.

 

Arthur was smiling broadly at Uther, looking none worse for the wear after his troubles earlier in the day. He had clearly showered, and now was donning velvet and silk, all in Pendragon Red, and his crown was nowhere to be seen — it was not, very clearly, an official encounter, but simply a child rushing back to their parent’s arms after time apart.

 

Master Kilgharrah’s wings flipped a bit as he approached them, making Arthur stop, but from what Aredian could see, the old Jedi was leaning on his long, decorated stick, and wearing something resembling a smile.

 

“Young Pendragon,” he said, his voice booming as usual. “It was a tragedy what befell to you on the platform.”

 

The chancellor flinched at this careless mention of the incident, as if he did not want to believe — or remember — how easily he could lose his heir. The king, on the other hand, remained firm, as if the tragedy served only to harden his resolve.

 

“It will not be forgotten,” Arthur vowed. “Owain did not lay his life down in vain — I _will_ continue my mission, and serve Camelot, Albion and the Republic to the best of my abilities.”

 

Master Kilgharrah lowered his head, seeming a bit impressed — not an easy feat, for in his extremely long life, the Grandmaster had seen much. On the other hand, it just showed how little he knew about Arthur, or how low were his expectations for non-Jedi. Aredian wasn’t sure which, but it was possibly a mix of both.

 

“For sure,” The Jedi agreed. “Makes me _glad_ to see you alive.”

 

There was something in his voice that clearly gave Arthur a pause, and he looked from Master Kilgharrah to the rest of the Jedi, his face curious.

 

“Our intelligence points to disgruntled miners from Gedref,” informed the small Master Grettir, but there was something in his voice that made Aredian — and Arthur — know that he wasn’t sure about it.

 

“ _I_ think Count Peter was behind it,” the bold king declared, finally.

 

The council received that with a stone silence. It was as if none of them could deny it, but none of them wanted to accept it either. It made Aredian frown.

 

“He is a political idealist, not a murdered,” dismissed Master Alator, then, after an infinite second. The Cerean didn’t seem perturbed by it.

 

“You remember, your majesty, that Count Peter was once a Jedi,” Gaius told him, purposefully leaning into his stick as Aredian hadn’t seen him do for a long time, as if to remind Arthur how much he had done to protect him, that he could and should be trusted. Gaius was one of the smartest political minds Aredian had ever met, and not above using such tricks to make himself heard. “He couldn’t assassinate anyone. It’s not in his character.”

 

Arthur _did_ look sorry upon being forcibly reminded of Gaius situation, and shrugged like some young boy being scolded by his schoolmaster.

 

“Whatever reason, young King, you are in grave danger;” Master Kilgharrah concluded, and it made Uther bristle once again.

 

“Master Jedi,” The chancellor said, looking at all of them at once, his worry clear in his features. “May I suggest that the King be placed under the protection of your graces? Clearly…”

 

“Is it a wise decision, at this strained moment?” he asked, looking at Uther, and it was Arthur’s turn to be annoyed.

 

“Father!” he complained, a second away from putting his hand on his hip. “I don’t think the situation…”

 

“Is that serious?” Uther asked, clearly not in the mood to argue his point of view. “But I do, _Your Majesty_ ”. His emphasis on Arthur’s title was marked enough to make the man flinch. It was obvious that he had gone from child to ruler in a second, and Arthur had never enjoyed the intrusion of his duties on his relationship with his father. “The way matters stand — what would happen, if you were to die? Who would rule Camelot? Who would…” he shook his head.

 

 “I do not need a baby sitter!” he answered, his pride hurt, but Aredian could see he was softening to his father’s pleas. It seemed to Aredian that he was often caught in the midst of Uther’s squabbles with his children; and if his friend had learnt how to handle politicians, he never did learn to accept rebellion in his own home.

 

“I realise,” he interrupted, trying to sound as pacifying as possible, as he had done dozens of times before. “That additional security may be disruptive for you,” he told the young king, trying to smile. “But perhaps someone you’re familiar with…” he let the suggestion hang.

 

Both Uther and Arthur looked at Aredian, and from him to Gaius, who, naturally, would have been Uther’s first choice but that now, as a Council Member, was _not_ a possibility — not to mention that, while wise and a remarkable Ambassador, he was _not_ a Guardian and could hardly be of use to defend a warrior such as Arthur with all his restrains.

 

“Someone like Mordred,” Gaius suggested, then, looking at his colleagues, who nodded to it.

 

“It can be arranged,” Master Deaton answered, with a nod. “He had just returned from a border dispute on Ansion.”

 

Others might have missed the way King Arthur’s eyes softened and a bit of colour rose up his face, but not Aredian. It truly intrigued him, but he saved the information for future analysis. Uther stepped down from the steps that held his desk above the chairs that were positioned for those who came with petitions, walking towards his son and putting his hand in his shoulder.

 

“Do it for me, Arthur,” he pleaded, his face sad. “The thought of loosing you…”

 

Uther didn’t finish the sentence, but the way he gripped at Arthur’s shoulder, looking into his eyes before looking away and composing his face into a mask of calm were more than enough. The chancellor was not a man that was comfortable with divulging his emotions, lest his enemies use them against him, but in begging his child to be more careful with his life, one could see the ghost of his beloved queen and her loss in the depths of his eyes. Arthur looked around, lost, before nodding to the waiting council.

 

“I’ll ask Mordred to report to you immediately, Your Majesty.” Master Deaton said, his face softened by the scene and by Arthur’s clear awkwardness.

 

“Thank you,” Arthur answered, his voice subdued.

 

The council continued on their way, leaving the room, and Aredian followed to register the things he was meant to and consider what he had just learnt, giving father and son a modicum of privacy.

 

* * *

 

 

Merlin was trying, he really was. Half of his mind was on the task of _not fidgeting_ , the other half was focused on keeping his cool — controlling himself, keeping his emotions in check, keeping everything in perfect peace. That was the Jedi way: live in the moment, be mindful of your thoughts, control your emotions — there is nothing but the Force, nothing but peace.

 

Yet, if he was to judge by Mordred’s face, he wasn’t doing a very good job at it. His master seemed to be fighting not to laugh openly at him.

 

“You seem a little on edge,” Mordred pointed out, still as a rock as the elevator rose through the sky; but the undercurrent of mirth in his voice couldn’t be hidden.

 

“Not at all,” denied Merlin, glad that at least his voice was under control.

 

Mordred’s eyebrow twitched in doubt, but the rest of his face was smooth.

 

“I haven’t seen you _this_ tense since we feel into that nest of gundarks.”

 

That broke Merlin’s attempt at composure, and he snorted, remembering the moment.

 

“ _You_ fell into that nightmare, Master!” He reminded. “And I rescued you.”

 

“Oh yes,” Mordred said, with a tiny laugh. The smile that came to rest on his face after it was genuine, and made his eyes crinkle a bit, and for the first time since they had entered the elevator, he looked straight at Merlin. “You’re sweating!” he seemed surprised, and not positively so. “Relax. Take a _deep breath_.”

 

Apart from his clear concern with Merlin, Mordred was calm as still water. It boggled Merlin’s mind how he could be so, after everything — well, not that Merlin _knew_ anything for sure, but it had clearly… It was just surprising that he was so unaffected by the meeting that was clearly coming, considering that when they had last met, Mordred had blushed without Arthur even looking at him. If anything was needed to prove how much Mordred had grown — as a man, as a Jedi — it was _this_. Forget the trials, he was a Master indeed, not only for Merlin, but for all.

 

Merlin could only hope he would have grown as clearly as Mordred.

 

“I haven’t seem him in ten years, Master,” he said, although for sure Mordred knew, as his small nod gave away.

 

However, Merlin doubted he could fully understand how important it was to him — how he had thought of King Arthur every day during this period, how he had wanted to be half the warrior he had glimpsed in him, half the man. Mordred’s heart and his loyalty belonged to the Republic as a whole — he may had pledged his support to Arthur in his hour of need, but he had said then that the bonds shared were more important than any power — and those bond him to the Jedi Order first and foremost. Whatever feelings King Arthur might have once awaken in him, they were _not_ the sort to make him forget where his should keep his faith.

 

Merlin, on the other hand, would _never_ be able to forget that before the Republic, before the Order, when it had seemed that his whole life had been turned upside down and his dreams dangled in front of him only to be smashed, Arthur had believed in him and trusted him and wanted his loyalty. The support of his heart was all he had asked, and Merlin had given it — fully, completely, in a way that made sure he could _not_ just pretend this was an assignment like any other. Forget the Knight Trials, as much as he was eager to go through his, this _was_ the moment where everything he had been through in the last ten years would be put to the test, his worth be judged, and it was impossible to be calm in the face of that.

 

The door opened, and Elyan was standing near the elevator, a huge smile on his face as he saw them.

 

“Mordred?” he asked, watching his master for a second before being sure that this bearded man was the same young padawan that he had fought with in Camelot. “Mordred! I’m so glad to see you!”

 

Mordred smiled at him, accepting the hug that was offered.

 

“It is good to see you again, Elyan,” he said, warmth in his tone. “How is everyone else?”

 

“Good!” he said, before remembering himself and making a face. “Well — there is the separatist thing…” Mordred gave him a side nod, and he moved on. “But as good as they can be, I’d say.”

 

“All of them, I trust?” Mordred said, and Elyan’s smile grew bigger.

 

“Yes — Lancelot has even grown enough balls to start courting my sister — at this rate, though, they won’t get married until they’re old and grey,” he confided, with an amused smile. “What about Master Gaius? Lady Morgana?”

 

It was always confusing to hear someone talking about Morgana as if she were royalty — although, technically, she was — and Merlin kept his silence as Mordred’s smile grew.

 

“Master Gaius is at the High Council now, as I’m sure you know,” Mordred answered, and Elyan agreed to it with a gesture. “Morgana, I hear, is to be made a Master soon. She has been… Well, I believe, although I haven’t seen her in person in months.”

 

“Stuck at the border, I’ve heard,” Elyan said, before slapping his head. “Where are my manners? Please come in.”

 

He escorted both of them to the royal apartments Camelot held at the 500 Republica, the very same ones Merlin had come to as a child. It was, suddenly, as if all the years in between disappeared and he was just a boy once again, recently brought from Tatooine, unsure of where he stood, unsure of who he was, and what he was meant to do.

 

“Arthur!” Elyan called, betraying their closeness in the intimate space provided. “The Jedi have arrived.”

 

Arthur walked from one of the inner rooms, and Merlin was struck speechless once more. It was _not_ that the years hadn’t touched him, but he didn’t look older. More mature, perhaps, with a new strength in his jawline and a tired glint in his eyes; but it seemed as if, instead of ageing, Arthur had simply become more _himself_ in the last decade. His shoulders were still impressively broad, his arms clearly muscled under the silk that covered it. He smiled upon seeing them, but his eyes were focused on Mordred as he approached. While some part of Merlin couldn’t help but being disappointed at it, he was not really surprised.

 

“It’s been far too long, Master Mordred,” he said, coming to shake his hand in a way that was far more friendly than one would generally expect from a king.

 

“I’m not a master,” Mordred corrected, but his face was still… affable. Mostly calm and polite, undeniably pleasant, and only the long years spent together made Merlin notice the slight pink in his cheeks. “Not yet, at least.”

 

Mordred gestured to Merlin, where he stood behind him, and Arthur stopped, openly staring. Focusing, Merlin could see himself through Arthur’s eyes — long and lean, quite a head over Mordred’s height and a tad taller even than Arthur himself. He could see how his shaved hair must look, somewhat messy, and his long padawan braid hanging from behind his left ear. Arthur could not see, under his brown mantle, the scars he bore from his years serving the order, but there might be something — anything — that showed him just the sort of warrior — guardian — he had become since their last meeting.

 

“Merlin?” Arthur asked, finally, blinking as if he couldn’t believe his eyes. “My goodness, you’ve grown.”

 

“So have you,” the words were out of Merlin’s mouth before he even thought them, before he could notice he was making no sense. “More royal, I mean...” he tried to correct himself, and he could feel Mordred’s reprehension without a single movement. It was clear that his master would have rolled his eyes at him if he weren’t so controlled. “For a prat, I mean.”

 

This made Arthur laugh, shaking his head.

 

“Well, clearly you’ll always be the brat I knew on Tatooine!” He answered, but there was no particular sting to it. “Never a ounce of smoothness — should have known better than to expect that the Jedi would’ve given you any sort of ability to be political.”

 

It was clearly a jest, and aimed at Merlin’s poor manners rather than the Order, but Merlin also knew his master and knew how it’d pain him, how it’d make him feel like he had failed. A wave of protectiveness surged inside him, and even though he _could_ have kept his silence, he _didn_ _’t want_ to.

 

“ _You_ _’re_ one to talk!” Merlin scoffed. “Clearly my masters have been far better than _yours_!”

 

It didn’t have the effect he had expected — Mordred looked torn between pained and moved by his defense — but Arthur smiled, looking from one to the other, and disarmed him with a single sentence.

 

“I do not doubt it.”

 

He turned his back and walked to seat on the couch — red, as most of the decoration. Mordred sat himself opposite to Arthur, and Merlin took his customary place on his right. Elyan was talking to someone on the intercom, as Mordred reassured Arthur.

 

“Our presence here will be invisible, Your Majesty. I can assure you.”

 

“Arthur,” the king corrected, waving away his title. “Men who have fought on my side have earned the right to call me by my name.”

 

Mordred assented with a gracious bow, and a new man entered the room. It took Merlin a moment to recognise Sir Leon, his face cordial and wary at once.

 

“Hello, Master Mordred — Merlin.” He smiled at the padawan, who was shocked that he had been so immediately recognised, before focusing on his master. “As the one responsible for His Majesty’s security service, I’m very grateful for your presence,” he said, shooting a glance to his king that looked very much like the ones Mordred would send him when he was being unreasonable or too heroic. Arthur’s scowl was, he imagined, not so different from his own expression at such occasions and Merlin needed to control the urge to giggle. “The situation is more dangerous than he will admit.”

 

“I don’t need more security,” Arthur waved it away, and Leon stepped back, hands hidden behind his hips, standing attention as the king spoke; but his face betrayed how little he agreed with his liege’s words. “What I need, is _answers_. I need to know _who_ is trying to kill me.”

 

“We are here to protect you, not to start an investigation,” was Mordred’s careful answer, and Merlin bit his tongue.

 

“What is the point of it?” Arthur questioned, but unlike Merlin, he didn’t sound like an ungrateful child when doing it. “How can you — or anyone — possibly be effective in protecting someone — or something — when you don’t have all the information? When you don’t know _what_ you are protecting them from or why? How can you want me to just _hurry up and wait_ without having enough knowledge to devise a proper plan?”

 

“I understand your concern,” Mordred replied, calmly. “But we cannot exceed our mandate.”

 

“Why?” Arthur asked, as if it were simple. “Why else were you assigned? Protection alone — this is something my men and local security can do — failing that, I’m more than able to defend myself. Having Jedi on top of that is an overkill.”

 

“I agree, Master,” Merlin finally spoke, emboldened by Arthur’s words. “Investigation is implied in our mandate.”

 

“We will do as the Council instructed,” Mordred’s eyes were on him now, hard and judging. “And you will pay attention to my lead.”

 

Merlin’s answer was on his tongue as Leon interrupted.

 

“Perhaps your presence alone will be enough to clear the mystery of this threat.”

 

The look he shot Arthur was admonishing, and the king stood up, then, with a sigh.

 

“Very well. If you excuse me, I will retire.”

 

It was clear that his face was sour, and he walked out of the room without another word. Leon seemed long suffering as he watched the king’s back, before Elyan stood up and spoke to them.

 

“The gods know we all feel better having you here,” he said, with a sigh. “We have gathered all the specialised personnel we could — one man in every floor, though most aren’t knights. I was about to go check the control centre downstairs.”

 

He gave them a small wave and followed with his orders, while Leon stayed. Mordred started to walk around, analysing the place for potential weak spots, and Leon looked at Merlin with a smile that was a bit more welcoming than his previous expression.

 

“I’m _so_ glad to see you again,” he told both, and Merlin could see his master smile, but he kept on moving.

 

“He hardly recognised me,” Merlin complained, with a sigh. “I have thought of him every day since we’ve parted… But he has forgotten me completely.”

 

Leon frowned at this, shaking his head.

 

“He was happy. Happier than I remember seeing him in a _long_ time,” he offered, but Merlin just shook his head, desolated.

 

Mordred stepped next to him, his voice comforting.

 

“You’re focusing on the negative,” he warned, not for the first time. “Be mindful of your thoughts.”

 

Merlin considered saying something else — even rebelling, because it just wasn’t _human_ to act like it was something so small, even for a Jedi, there must be limits, when Mordred’s face broke into a sunny smile.

 

“He _was_ pleased to see us — now, let’s check the security.”

 

It was heart-warming to see Mordred don off his Perfect Jedi cape, but at the same time, it was discomfiting to see him so affected by so little words. As Leon led them to see the full scheme they had organised, Merlin’s head was filled with questions he doubted he’d get the answer to.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

  



	2. Chapter 2

 

Arthur was aware that it wasn’t exactly the most adult thing to do to simply lock himself up in his room, but the whole mother hen thing Leon had going on with him managed to make him extremely annoyed sometimes. He loved his First Knight dearly, they were like brothers, but his insistence in mediating had struck him as unfair when he was trying to lead the Jedi to help further.

 

Perhaps it had been smart of him — if he _was_ right, there would be a new attempt soon enough, and with Arthur under his watch, there would be nothing stopping them from following through with it. Even if he didn’t like the concept of simply waiting, it seemed useless to complain now.

 

Coming to dinner with them wasn’t a hardship. Whatever he had said, he _was_ glad to have them around — even if he didn’t particularly feel the need to their fighting skills — and he was also tired of being alone in his rooms, only I2-SA for company. The droid was clearly smart and almost human-like after all the improvements the engineers from Camelot had done to it, but it still just communicated with beeps and screeches.

 

Both master and padawan rose when he entered the dining room, and Arthur gestured them to sit again. He took his place at the head of the table, smiling.

 

“I am deeply sorry for my behaviour before,” he told them, feeling deeply conscious that at 29 he was far too old for such tantrums.

 

“Not at all,” Mordred answered, his face smooth. “It was a trying day, and such events are sure to bring emotions to a boiling point.”

 

One of the servants walked in to serve them pre-dinner wine, and Arthur used the distraction as an opportunity to watch the two men he hadn’t seen in a decade.

 

The changes in Merlin were the most obvious ones — if at twelve he had seemed like a child, at twenty two he could not be mistaken by someone younger than he was. It seemed somewhat surreal to think that he was now older than Arthur and Mordred had been at the time they first — last — met. There was, still, some similarities in their faces, but the differences were more pronounced. Merlin had become taller than both of them, and while he was clearly wiry, there was a width in his chest and back that couldn’t have been guessed from their previous encounter. His hair was cut in the same messy style used by most padawans — at least those with hair — a mismatching mix of shaved, long and braided. It made his already distinctive ears look even bigger, but the overall effect was sweet rather than disproportional. His cheekbones had always been prominent, in a way that made him look gaunt and famished as a slave child, but now seemed to have been carved in the marble colour of his skin. As a child, his lips had seemed pouty, but now Arthur couldn’t picture him doing something so undignified, not with his brown Jedi robes and calm demeanour. Sure, probably he would stick his feet on his mouth the moment he opened it, but as he rose the crystal glass to his lips, tasting the bitter drink without cringing, he seemed impossibly grown up.

 

The differences in Mordred were harder to see, but still there. The last of the roundness in his face was gone, replaced by a wider jaw and a sharpness that was smoothed only by the slight beard that covered the lower part of his face and the top of his perfectly proportionate mouth. There were slight bags under his eyes that spoke of little sleep and a long time spent on missions, and his eyebrowns had grown a bit thicker, just as the hair now spread somewhat wildly through his head — the last time they met, the braid had already been gone, but the hair remained cropped short. Now it seemed to frame his head perfectly, on long waves that hinted at curling if the hair was allowed to grown longer. More than physical changes, his demeanour was different — under Nimueh’s tutelage, he had been shy and even a bit unsure, but now there was no space for doubting his abilities. With Merlin as his padawan, Mordred had grown into a full knight — a man — absolutely in control of himself and Arthur couldn’t, now, see him doing some of the things he had once done. Mordred clearly had grown into the sort of man who was conscious of his duty and his orders, perhaps too much so.

 

Which was at once a good thing and a bit unsettling — in both cases. Arthur didn’t even know how to start a conversation with people he had trusted his life with, once, people who had sat around him in an equal table, witnessed him become the King he wanted to be. He could never treat them with only polite distance; it would be out of character for him to do so, and at the same time, he could not see how to regain the old closeness. Many times during the intervening years Arthur had longed for the sight of them, for their voices and their company, but in facing the reality of it he felt strangely wrong-footed.

 

The moment of silent awkwardness while drinking a bit of wine was broken by Leon’s arrival.

 

“Your Majesty,” he said, coming in, with a kind smile. “Your popularity clearly isn’t suffering in _some_ sectors of society.”

 

He held the door open to somebody, and Arthur was at once glad and unsurprised to see his visitor.

 

Morgana wasn’t wearing her Jedi robes, but some sort of simple and yet flowing white dress under the dark green cape. Her hair was unbound, falling wildly  through her back in dark waves, her face pale and her green eyes seeming to want to make sure that what she saw was real as she rushed inside and threw her arms around Arthur, hugging him.

 

It was a weird thing, to have her this close, to smell the distinctive herbs in her clothing and the scent of her skin. In the ten years since they had met, they had grown much closer — one might even say close, at least as close as one could be to a Jedi or to a Seer — but mostly they spoke from afar and even when meeting in person, never before she had shown such unbound affection as she was doing now. Arthur hugged her back, cherishing the warmness of the moment, and when they parted, there was a teary smile in her face.

 

“I was so worried,” she said, in barely more than a whisper. “I feared — I saw — I tried to warn you…”

 

“And you were right, as usual.” Arthur replied, patting her hand. “But I am here — I’m fine. Owain…”

 

No man was worth his tears, Arthur had learnt this lesson still young. But it didn’t mean he didn’t miss or feel pain for his fallen comrades, specially those whose death had been but means to keep him alive. Morgana seemed to know this — as she knew many other things without having them ever spoken, and she nodded with a sad smile, before turning around to face Mordred.

 

The knight was standing, ready for her blinding smile, and it didn’t look nearly as weird seeing the two of them embracing; in many ways they were more like siblings than he and Morgana could ever be. Morgana ran her left hand through Mordred’s hair, while Arthur stepped back into his place in front of his chair. Her smile was still welcoming as she stretched her right hand in Merlin’s direction, making the padawan stand and come close to her, holding it. Morgana squeezed the boy’s hand for a moment, before letting go of Mordred and rising on her tiptoes to kiss his cheek.

 

“And you two,” she said, with a shake of her head. “Having all the fun and leaving me here!”

 

“We may have different concepts of fun,” Mordred replied in a deadpan, as Morgana grinned and moved to take the seat next to him. Merlin made his way around the table just as Leon arrived, to sit in front of Morgana, the servants bringing extra plates for her.

 

“I trust you will stay for dinner?” Arthur asked, and Morgana nodded, still smiling.

 

“Oh — so isn’t it true what I’ve heard?” she teased the man next to her with a smirk, before turning her eyes to Merlin. “Tell me the truth, Merlin. What sort of heroics did both of you get into this time?”

 

Merlin laughed out loud at this, and Mordred grinned, and it was impressive how her simple presence had eased things. Leon, who had held a soft spot for his sister ever since meeting her, smiled.

 

“Don’t try to lie, she’ll have your head,” the knight warned Merlin, and the boy shook his head.

 

“I wouldn’t dare!”

 

“It was… interesting” Mordred declared, finally, as the food was starting to be served. “More than your usual border dispute, I assure you.”

 

“Starting with the whole arriving to save our fellow Consulars,” Merlin informed, and Morgana laughed good-naturedly at the jab.

 

“Getting in trouble, were they?”

 

“When _aren’t_ they?” Mordred asked, and Leon laughed at it.

 

“Just a small army of mercenaries,” Merlin answered, gesturing it away. “Nothing we can’t handle.”

 

“Of course,” agreed Morgana, looking at Arthur with a smile. “Mordred and Merlin were dispatched to play guards.”

 

“We _are_ guardians!” Mordred reminded her, laughing.

 

“Yeah — someone’s gotta keep you people in one piece to do the important political talking for the Republic,” added Merlin, with a easy smile.

 

“Then it was a simple matter of convincing the Alwari to share half their lands,” Mordred shrugged. “There have been more difficult missions.”

 

“Gundarks!” Merlin muttered, and Mordred shuddered, and the two men shared a look before laughing. It was clear that they had the easy sort of rapport that made them a wonderful team, but it meant that the rest of them were left out of their inside jokes.

 

“Never mind peace talks — I’ve had more than enough of them for a lifetime!” Morgana gestured with her fork towards them. “What _I_ have heard, is that there was need for some talent offering? Something about a feast and presentations?”

 

Now both men blushed, but there was a spark in their eyes while they did it.

 

“Well — yes.” Mordred admitted, scratching his head. “We met a clan that wouldn’t let us through unless we proved we had _souls_ , which is… Well, part of their culture. To prove it, each of us had to perform at a feast they were having — separately.”

 

He stopped, filling his mouth with food, and Arthur found himself unusually interested in it.

 

“Don’t leave us in the suspense — tell us what happened!”

 

Mordred just shrugged, clearly fighting to keep the smooth composure that he had been sporting before Morgana’s arrival.

 

“Well, Sefa did a series of acrobatics with sand, and her padawan did lightsaber acrobatics,” he turned to Morgana, his face a mask of mock-offence. “What do they do to you all that you think _lightsabers_ are something to _dance_ with instead of fighting?”

 

It made his sister laugh, and she shook her head.

 

“Don’t ask me — I always took my training seriously. Now, _you_ were the one in love with Ataru as a child, and it _is…_ ”

 

“A noble and fight worthy form,” Mordred cut in, with a smile. “Now, it was a sight of pure mastery, but still…”

 

“No one is interested in _their_ gimmicks,” Morgana interrupted, sharing a look with Arthur before staring at the padawan. “Tell us about _you_.”

 

Merlin smiled a bit, then, the tips of his ears shining red, as he shrugged.

 

“I sang a song,” he explained, with a small shrug. “One my mother used to sing when I was a child.”

 

There was something in his face, something of longing and pain and missing, but it was gone in an instant, under Morgana’s sympathetic gaze. Sensing the tension that it left in the boy he had seen give up so much, Arthur turned towards Mordred.

 

“What about you? What was _your_ offer?”

 

“I…” Mordred’s face twisted in a expression of one who didn’t know how to explain. “I just told them a story.”

 

“A story?” Arthur asked, frowning, but Morgana was quicker than him.

 

“And what story was that, Mordred?” she asked, not without a hint of teasing, as if she knew very well the answer to it, but wanted to hear him say it out loud for the pleasure of hearing it said out loud.

 

Mordred took a deep breath before he started speaking, but his face was clearly tinged with red now.

 

“I told them about the blockade of Camelot — a tale of honour and deceit, a tale of friendship and loss, a tale of heroics and the rise of a great King,” he rose his glass, as if toasting Arthur, before looking at her and Merlin in turns. “A tale of talents coming to light, and hope springing anew.”

 

Arthur was touched by his words, and Morgana’s eyes had grown soft again, her hand curling around Mordred’s lowered arm; but Mordred’s eyes were on his padawan, shining with some secret intensity, that made Merlin blush a bit, while answering the smile with the same fierceness. He was taken back to the past, his heart warming to their presence even more than before, and it seemed almost impossible that such a little time ago, he felt uncomfortable around them. Those people had seen him at his lowest — everything lost — and had proved through words and deeds that they would do whatever they could to help him. It had been stupid to try and press them or doubt their abilities.

 

“I thought that after so many adventures, you’d have forgotten it,” he said, trying to sound nonchalant about it, but Mordred’s smile was disarming when he turned to him.

 

“Not for a single day,” he answered, and now, truly facing him, Arthur could see the sadness in the depths of his eyes, even as he tried to joke. “It burdened me with this one,” he indicated Merlin with his head, “which is a daily trial.”

 

“I’ve been getting better!” Merlin complained, but there was no annoyance in his words. “I’m sorry that we can’t all be the perfect Jedi you are — Master Gaius is incredibly proud of how well you turned out, you know. Almost enough not to raise his eyebrows, from what I’ve heard.”

 

Morgana laughed out loud at this, and all of them exchanged grins.

 

“I’ve seen him earlier today,” Arthur commented. “He seems well. I was glad to hear he had been invited to join the High Council.”

 

“Master Gaius is wise and a very skilled negotiator.” Mordred offered, returning to his food.

 

“And an absolute bore of a teacher!” Morgana completed, and none of them could help snorting.

 

“Well — yes,” there was no way Mordred could deny it. “But if helped you a lot, in the end.”

 

The two Jedi exchanged a look, while Merlin looked down. For all their closeness, Arthur had never really managed to understand exactly what happened to Morgana after the whole incident with the Sith back in Camelot. He _knew_ that it had led her Sight to expand, far beyond not only what was natural for a human, but far more than even most Jedi. He had been told that Gaius had relinquished her training, and that she had been paired with Master Taliesin instead — which was, in itself, very unusual, but nothing about the whole thing had been normal. For the first year, he had heard nothing about her, save the most cursory reports of being healthy and in training in some long-forgotten planet that supposedly had been once dominated — and was still mostly populated — by a race famous for producing unerring seers. Even the following three years had been of little and sparse contacts, before she emerged a Knight of the Republic and a Jedi Seer, which allowed her much more leeway to talk to him more often, and something that was more than friendship — if not quite the relationship he was used to seeing between siblings — had developed between them.

 

“It did,” she granted, with a small nod, her face peaceful.

 

“It was the natural progression of events, him becoming part of the council,” the Guardian finished, before putting more food in his mouth.

 

“Took them long enough,” muttered Merlin, somewhat darkly, and Mordred shot him a warning look.

 

“Anyway,” Morgana said, clearing her throat. “Talking about old stories and timely acquaintances, reminds me — what _is_ that treaty that has made you risk coming to Coruscant in spite of my warnings?”

 

Arthur sighed, because it was never easy to explain such things, specially when people were not particularly familiar with the local politics. Morgana may have been, once, fully acquainted with everything about Camelot — Uther and Gaius both would have made sure of it — but he wouldn’t simply leave out Merlin and Mordred from the conversation, which meant explaining many things.

 

“Well, it’s complicated — how much do you know about the Albion Sector?” he asked, looking at Merlin.

 

“It is one of the mostly heavily populated regions of the Inner Rim,” the padawan started, his ears glowing pink, and speaking as if he was reciting a lesson well learnt “with over thirty inhabited areas — Camelot is the biggest system in it, and often the political leader. Seven different Senators speak for the Sector, that has elected the two last Supreme Chancellors. The biggest part of the population is human, and each system — or planet, depending on the case — is ruled by a hereditary monarch, served by a council. That council is normally elected by the people, directly or not. Albion Sector also has a strong military tradition, and unlike the biggest part of the galaxy, it does not relate to droid and other machine based armies, but fully trained sentient beings. The knights of Camelot,” Merlin turned, to smile at Leon. “Are known as the best warriors in the galaxy. A bit over thirty standard years ago now, the Albion Sector got involved in a war with the people from Osarian that wanted to try and expand their rule into the Inner Rim — helped by the Techno Union, and Chancellor Uther, then King, managed to maintain control of it, in the course of a war that lasted almost 3 years.”

 

“Very good,” Arthur said, impressed, and Mordred seemed proud, though in a subdued way. “So you all understand the basics of our culture and history.”

 

“It’s not as sophisticated as you want to make it sound.” Morgana said, deeply unimpressed with him, but she smiled kindly at Merlin. “As if yelling and keeping some particularly primeval perceptions were something to be proud of.”

 

“We’re not perfect,” Arthur dismissed, easily. “But we are honourable and honest, which is more than can be said about many places in the Galaxy. We are also brave enough to fight — and defend — those in need.”

 

The two older Jedi assented to it, though Morgana kept her mocking grin.

 

“The threat presented by the Separatists is growing,” he added, unnecessarily, since they all knew it well enough. “The tensions on Ansion, they were symptomatic of it. They are growing bolder, and trying to close in on us. It’s not only the Namadi Corridor they are pressing into, and there is no denying that the Corellian Run is one of the main entrances to the Core, and Albion is far too close to it. The treaty, as it is, expands on Albion’s original treaty of military union and trade benefit; it increases the power of our own men by offering ourselves as training centres for other planets in the region — together, we can equip and prepare thousands of warriors to help defend the Mid Rim from their oncoming attacks.”

 

“You don’t know if there will be any attacks.” Mordred pointed out, but there was no true belief in his voice. “The Chancellor’s negotiations…”

 

“Will never be enough!” Arthur dismissed, looking at his sister, who promptly looked away without an answer. Her lack of reply was answer enough. “We have got to be ready for it — even if it never becomes a real war. The separatists have their means and their resources, they need to see that there were Systems in the Republic that are ready to hold out in any way they can.”

 

“It sounds like you’re in favour of the creation of an army for the Republic,” Mordred questioned, and there was something of a disapproval in his voice.

 

“And I am,” Arthur agreed, not fearing his discontent, surely Mordred couldn’t have expect anything else? “There aren’t enough Jedi to protect all of us — hundreds of billions of people in any particular part of it. You are not soldiers, as I’ve been so often reminded. You are leaders, and generals, but not…” Arthur sighed. “If the push comes to a shove, there simply aren’t enough of you to guarantee the Republic’s safety alone.”

 

Mordred looked like someone who had just been force fed something particularly sour, but there was no disagreeing with it — from what his father had said, the High Council had admitted that much in their last meeting. Still, Arthur felt for him, because it was clear that there was a huge desire to help from them, more than they could.

 

“It’s not your fault — it’s _no one’s_ fault,” he offered, trying to make amends. “And I know how terrible it feels to not be able to do as much as you want to do — which was the whole reason beneath this treaty. We are armed and prepared, but if it is needed… We want to do more. To offer more. Not only knights, but commanders and archers and pilots and whatever else we can train. The miners, smiths and engineers of Albion are also bound by it to multiply their knowledge, to share with whomever in the Republic wants our help. We may not be Geonosians or Xi Chars, but there is a lot of talent in our lands, and we want to share it with the Republic in this time of need.”

 

“A noble goal,” Merlin said, with clear approval.

 

“And a dangerous one,” Mordred added, with a sigh. “With Albion’s culture and Camelot’s renown in warriors… I can see where your suspicions came from.”

 

Arthur looked from one to the other, and it was comforting to know they were finally in the same page about this. The only thing that stopped him from smiling at it was Morgana’s worried frown, her eyes unseeing.

 

* * *

 

 

There was no point in arguing with Arthur, and Morgana knew better than to even try as he asked Mordred to escort her. For all that Arthur was in clear danger, Merlin was more than capable to overseeing the protection of a man that, generally speaking, needed no help in protecting himself.

 

She was almost grateful for the opportunity her brother was giving her, allowing her time to spend with Mordred alone. They hadn’t met in months, even before he left for Ansion, always jumping from one mission to another. Sure, they had talked, but it was never the same thing. When one lives half of their lives wandering through dreams and visions, the HoloNet seemed too unreal, not that different from the nightmares that haunted her.

 

And lately, there had been many. Arthur’s assassination attempt wasn’t even the worst of them — or even the clearer. Most Jedi needed to focus to be one with the Force, to embed themselves in it, but since that fateful encounter with the Sith, Morgana had come to need to focus to step _out_ of it. Before that, in her life, it had seemed like an eternal struggle, becoming one with the universe; while now hard it was to keep her focus in the present, the moment, the reality.

 

It was no wonder the council took her every word with a grain of salt, even if they were ready to call her a Master. She _was_ one, in all ways that counted, which didn’t make it easier to live with the gift she had been bestowed unwillingly.

 

Sometimes she feared that the worst of the rumours that had grown around her situation were true — that it hadn’t been some unwittingly awakening of her natural talent, but some dark sort of punishment for them all; to allow them so many glimpses of a future that seemed even grimier and to make them despair.

 

She would not allow herself to despair over it, most of the time. And Mordred was right; she had Gaius to thank for it. Her old master had given her more than enough instruction to weather the worse of it. Master Taliesin and the Voss mystics had helped her hone her skills to make it something she could use for good, for the Order, for the Republic, instead of something holding her back and sending her spiralling into madness.

 

The isolation of that first year never truly left her; locked inside the ancient Temple of Healing, isolated in a planet that shunned contact with outsiders, her contact limited to those who shared the same sort of gifts — and a whole different culture. Never before, though life as a Jedi was meant to be a continuous sacrifice, had she felt so alone. Everyone was kind and understanding, more Jedi than the Jedi themselves, but they were all people she didn’t know and had never met before being entrusted into their care. Gaius had been almost overbearing in his insistence of keeping her close, while Taliesin was distant, and wanted her to thread on her own through the darkness and light of her visions, until she emerged on the other side by herself.

 

On the darkest moments, she had wondered if he would have even minded if she failed, if she fell to the darkness, if she got lost or if it would ease his burden. On the best ones, she knew that most of her trials would be fought in her own mind, were he could not help her, unless she helped herself. And Morgana was strong enough — or stubborn enough — to pass through it by herself.

 

The following two years of her training her been easier — after threading alone for the worst of it, there was no real challenge to be overcome. Her liberties had increased, too, and she had used it to keep in touch with Arthur. There were few that doubted his importance to the future, because his light shone bright to all prophets, and Uther’s continuous pressure about it had guaranteed them some time to bond.

 

Chancellor Uther, at least, seemed glad with the changes in her life. No more risks of having her become too independent; not when her duty kept her in Coruscant and in the Temple. She might not be a wife and mother like most Camelotians of her age, but her position was not that different to the one of a Priestess, and while he would never _like_ it, he begrudgingly respected it. More than that, for all that he didn’t seem to like or trust the Council very much, he was always ready to hear whatever she had seen and act accordingly.

 

It would have been an honour, if it weren’t a burden as well.

 

As the speeder stopped in front of the Temple, Morgana shook her head and forced herself to return to the moment.

 

“I’m sorry,” she said, smiling sadly at her friend. “Sometimes, it is too easy to get lost in my own head.”

 

“There is more in your head than in that of most people,” he answered, smiling gently. “It’s a heavy load to carry, and just your presence is more than enough to sooth my heart.”

 

They kept in silence for a few more steps as they went along the Processional Way, looking at each other and basking in the bond they had always shared.

 

“I wish I could be around more often,” Mordred said, taking her arm into his. “I miss the peace of the Temple.”

 

Morgana merely shook her head slightly.

 

“Your path lies elsewhere, out in the galaxy, keeping us all safe,” she reminded him, with a gentle squeeze. “And while I would love nothing more than to spend longer with you, I think you’re wrong — there is preciously little peace to be had at the Temple or anywhere in Coruscant.” She sighed. “I can’t say for sure about other places, but here feels like the darkness is always encroaching. It isn’t as it used to be. Dark times are ahead of us, and yet the Senate refuses to see it.”

 

“There is no one in the galaxy that can see as well as you,” Mordred started, but he seemed unsure. “So I’ll ask you — do you believe Arthur’s right? That it’ll come to war? That there is no other way for us to thread than to have an army for the Republic?”

 

Morgana wanted nothing more than to ease his fears, the ones he kept close to his heart and under the shroud of peace and acceptance, the ones he couldn’t admit even to himself because they would make him _less_ of a Jedi. Yet, she loved him too well to lie to him, and there was no point in mollycoddling what her visions kept showing, again and again.

 

“War is coming,” she told him, as gently as she could. “There is no doubt about it, whatever Uther might say. There will be no negotiations that may stop it.”

 

“Count Peter…” he started, and she shook her head at it.

 

“I know you always liked Master Peter, and I know he was a Jedi like few that have ever been. But, Mordred… He is truly the one deserving of the title of Lost among the twenty.”

 

“What do you mean?” he asked, dread colouring his curiosity.

 

“I mean that Master Peter is no more,” she couldn’t honestly explain the things she had seen, unclear and more of feelings and sounds than shapes and views. “Count Peter and him share preciously little — he is _not_ the man he once was. The Republic broke his heart for good, crushed much of his soul, and there will be no returning to the fold.”

 

Mordred exhaled slowly, seeming sad at this, and Morgana could truly understand it. She would easily trade her Mastery for the hope of having Count Peter back among them, of the war being nothing but an invisible threat that would never come to pass.

 

“I am sorry to hear it,” Mordred replied, finally, shaking his head.

 

“His wisdom would have been of a great help in times to come,” she agreed.

 

“Would they even come, if he was still among us?” he wondered out loud, and Morgana stopped, looking straight at him.

 

“You are wiser than that, Mordred,” she told him, knowing she sounded like some chiding mother and not caring. “As great as Master Peter was, one man alone cannot change the course of this — the darkness that comes is not of his doing.”

 

“Isn’t he helping it along?” the knight asked her, his voice small. “Not saying that he has fallen to the dark side, but however great his motives, however light he hopes to shine, isn’t it just conjuring darker shadows around us all?”

 

“There is no way to say for sure,” Morgana sighed. “Sometimes… Sometimes I have reasons to think it would be far worse if he wasn’t the one leading them. There are some… Well, it doesn’t matter, there is little point in dwelling of things that have not come to pass and just vanished in the air of possibilities.”

 

Mordred nodded, and they started walking again, no longer touching, but close enough to feel each other’s warmth.

 

“Arthur’s right about one thing, though,” she finally said, turning towards him. “How can we fight, if we know nothing of our enemies? _Why_ are we even fighting it? I know the Republic… I know we are sworn to defend the Republic, but what is the harm they would do if left alone? Whatever the Senate says or thinks — why do we have to..” She just shook his head, as if trying and failing to see the reason behind everything they went through.

 

“We have to fight them because they are not interested in peacefully coexisting,” Mordred replied, easily, with the certainty of those who know nothing but the present. “I’m not so sure they want to divide themselves from the Republic — their actions seem to veer more towards taking control of it.”

 

Morgana assented, but she also knew it didn’t mean to her what it meant to him — there was more to it than the simple black and white.

 

“It does not seem like a war we can win,” she confessed.

 

“What can you see?” he asked, point blank, and it was different from the usual behaviour around her, no one but Uther was so direct, and in Mordred’s case, she could trust him enough to say everything that she had told the council and they had dismissed as a possibility when her heart said it was a certainty.

 

“I see an army made of one man,” she replied, shivering at the cold wind that came to sweep through them as if to silence her. “An army of one man that saves us and dooms us at once. I see the Republic breaking apart even through the Victory. I see fear and destruction spreading through the galaxy. I see a world in Gray.”

 

Mordred’s face was serious and considering as he heard her, before they went back to walking.

 

“Ominous words,” he offered, and she shrugged.

 

“I wish I could just be like you — out there, _doing_ something to help us all. It feels as if all I do is… Spread doom and gloom.”

 

Mordred snorted at this, and she knew what he was going to say before he opened his mouth.

 

“It’s not as glamorous as you think, nor as interesting. I would much rather have the time to stay, to study, to become… More than I am. Wiser. Maybe then I’d have enough wisdom to help the Republic to avoid this.”

 

“You’re far too wise to your years,” she told him, with a grin. “And isn’t that always the case? Aren’t we always craving for things we cannot have?”

 

“We shouldn’t,” he reminded her, with a grin. “We are meant to accept our lives for what they are, and find peace in our duty.”

 

“So we should,” she agreed, smiling. “Not that easy, in the end.”

 

They were in front of the doors now, and there was no reason for him to continue, as much as they hated to be parted. Morgana watched as Mordred clearly tried to find his courage to speak, and patiently, she waited for the moment he would finally be ready to talk.

 

“You said earlier that I am wiser than believing that one single man could change the course of this,” he started, seeming unsure. “But… isn’t there _one_ man that could?”

 

“You mean Merlin,” she pointed out, and Mordred had the grace to blush.

 

“Isn’t he the Chosen One?”

 

“There is no doubt about it in my heart,” she replied, and caressed Mordred’s face. “And you’ve made a great man out of him. Merlin is destined to be the most powerful Jedi ever.”

 

“And couldn’t _he_ change the course of it?”

 

Morgana sighed, wishing it could be so easy.

 

“He _could_ if he was ready to. He _could_ if he was… As grown into his own as he will be. Alas, the war won’t wait for heroes to grow.”

 

“You speak as if we had but months,” Mordred said, his eyes growing wide. “Negotiations like those can go on for _years_.”

 

“Yes,” she agreed, knowing the nature of those arguments well enough. “But I fear we have only weeks until the storm breaks.”

 

Mordred gulped at this, and she wished there was anything she could do to help him, to ease his heart, all of their hearts, but whatever her powers, _this_ was beyond her.

 

So she did the only thing she _could_ do and hugged him, keeping him close, wishing that he would always be as safe as he was when in her arms, at the doors of the Temple that sometimes seemed to her like a tomb.

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

After Mordred and Morgana left, Merlin was left with Arthur for the first time in a decade, and to say that it made him anxious would be an understatement. King Arthur, the ruler of Camelot, had been everything he dreamed of being as a grown up, and after training and focusing for years, he felt as if he was once again short of it. It was clear that whatever his mind had been telling him about Arthur, his memories were far weaker than the reality of his wonder.

 

Not that Merlin would adore him, of course. He may have good principles and his hearts were clearly in the right place, but he was still a prat.

 

“I though you would be knighted by now,” Arthur said, and Merlin felt himself bristle at the tone. Clearly his ability to control his emotions wasn’t at it’s top for today, or he wouldn’t have been so clear to the king to the point of making him raise his hands in an calming gesture. “No offence.”

 

“None taken,” Merlin replied, but they both knew it was a courteous lie. “It is… Well, nothing about my training was according to standard, so the trials are particularly important and… Master Mordred doesn’t seem to think I’m ready.”

 

“I see,” Arthur sighed, trying to smile and failing.

 

“I’m still fully capable of protecting you,” Merlin assured him, and this made him laugh.

 

“I’ve told you, Merlin, I have no need for protection — not that sort of protection at least. I’ve survived many attempts without your help, and I am confident I can survive many more.”

 

Merlin wanted to tell him it wasn’t strictly true, that if Morgana had been _warning_ him about them, it wasn’t exactly surviving without the help of the Jedi, but it would be a useless point to make.

 

“What I need,” he continued, tensing up. “Is answers. I need to know more, to know the reason. It gets tiring, looking over your shoulder all the time — always acting on the spur of the moment, no planning. I know it’s difficult to understand with the adventurous lifestyle you have…”

 

“It really isn’t,” Merlin said, snorting. “Half of the time we have a plan, the other half we just need to wing it. We always make sure to gather as much intel as we can before starting — but, Your Majesty…”

 

“Arthur,” he corrected, gently, and Merlin nodded.

 

“Arthur — even with it, half of the time it’s about instinct and whatever precognition the Force grants us.”

 

“I have no precognition of my own,” he reminded Merlin, with a sigh. “And I fear Leon is right — that your presence will make them not even try. Which would be a good thing, except that it means we aren’t going to find out anything about it. I cannot have you both continuously at my back, I won’t use the privilege that having the Supreme Chancellor as my father to keep you. There is much more — more important things and battles — for the Jedi all through the galaxy. Which is why I need _information_ on who it is, so we can tackle the threat and eliminate it, once and for all.”

 

“It isn’t that simple,” Merlin tried to argue, but Arthur cut him.

 

“No, I know it isn’t. But it is far harder to discover anything if they don’t move, and they may as well hold their time until you are… otherwise engaged.”

 

“What do you have in mind?” Merlin asked, giving in to Arthur’s will, and the King’s smiled, making his heart beat faster.

 

“We could make them believe that you were here merely out of duty — that the council doesn’t believe there is something to worry about.”

 

“You’re talking about _baiting_ them.” Merlin pointed out, shaking his head. “It’s too dangerous.”

 

“Living is too dangerous,” countered Arthur, rubbing his hand on his face. “If I closed off the camera feed…”

 

“… And _how_ would that help us in protecting you?”

 

“It wouldn’t”, he admitted, before picking up a communicator in his belt and pressing a button. “But I wouldn’t be completely uncovered either. There are more of your old friends here.”

 

Merlin could only blink for a second, before the meaning of the words became clear. For all that people said about droids, there was no way he would ever confuse I2-SA with any other I2 unit he had ever met. There was just something about her pristine white dome and blue top screens that were as distinctive as the happy whirl she used to demonstrate her happiness in seeing him.

 

Without even pausing to think on the uselessness of his action, Merlin raised his hand and caressed her dome.

 

“How are you, old friend?” he asked, and was greeted by a series of beeps.

 

“It seems happy to see you,” Arthur noticed, with an amused smile.

 

“I’m happy to see you too,” Merlin guaranteed, smiling at the droid. “The other droids — they are _not_ as fun as you are to fly with.”

 

The droid whirled at it, and Arthur continued his speech.

 

“I can program I2 to keep an eye on the room — sense any movement inside it — while you stay here, cameras closed, and I will _look_ like I’m unprotected in my sleep.”

 

“It could work,” Merlin agreed, with a nod. “I don’t really need to _see_ you to sense the danger — if I concentrate, I can feel it even from afar.”

 

Arthur nodded, his smile still there.

 

“And it’ll give us the chance to see more — they may be careless enough to be seen and…”

 

“Blasters can’t get through the windows here,” Merlin continued, standing up to examine the exoglass panes. “So you’d be safe from that at least. There are other ways — less obvious ways to kill you — but save from poisoning your food, all would lead them to come close enough…”

 

“To be caught red-handed,” Arthur agreed, with a smile. “And we can be sure of what we’re dealing with — the sooner we know, the sooner you two will be free.”

 

Merlin wasn’t all that sure he wanted to be _free_ of Arthur’s presence, when it was almost as intoxicating as the drugs he heard were sold in the lower levels. When Arthur was around, it seemed like everything was possible, even the things he should never even think about. There was nothing that empowered him like the golden presence of the king, and there was no way he could say _no_ to his request.

 

“Don’t worry too much about our time,” he warned, but smiled. “But — yes, let’s do this.”

 

And, together, they started to plot it.

 

* * *

 

 

Mordred’s head was filled with thoughts as he returned from the Temple. He didn’t doubt any of Morgana’s words, and he trusted her Sight with his life, but it only made it harder for him to deal with the inevitability of her words. There was something big coming, and for some reason, he knew he was about to be in the middle of the whole explosion. It seemed to be his lot in life, whatever he wanted to do, he ended up in the worst possible place in the worst possible moments.

 

Which, of course, had been the whole reason for him ending up in a Gundark’s nest.

 

He came up the 500 Republica and forced his thoughts to focus on what was important: namely, the safety of King Arthur. His first action as meeting Elyan in the Control Room, and overseeing with him the whole security measures he had put in place. Uther’s standing had clearly facilitated things, and there were man loyal to Camelot all around. Mordred walked through the corridors, feeling each of them, and none of them could possibly be traitors — they were all, clearly, ready to die for their King — even if some seemed terrified with the possibility of being killed instead if they failed.

 

When one worked as closely with the Force as the Jedi did, fear was something that may lead them towards the dark side, but for ordinary beings, it was just part of life. Mordred would never approve of Uther’s harsh tactics, but he doubted they would break now. There was clear loyalty, and it surpassed whatever fears they had of reprisal. It didn’t surprise Mordred, not really, because it was clear that King Arthur was able to bring all to love him without effort. A sort of charisma that would make him an unstoppable politician if he decided to follow the path.

 

It was amazing, he had made a woman he had publicly humiliated ten years before become an ally when he had managed to convince even Queen Annis to agree to his views and share his plans. The strength of his character was exactly what made him a target, and the thought of his good actions led Mordred through rechecking every single person in charge of his security.

 

Leon and Elyan were absolutely capable of guaranteeing his security, Arthur hadn’t lied. Mordred had no doubt, too, that at the slightest hint of danger Arthur’s own sword would be out of it’s scabbard, ready to attack.

 

There was where they differed, because Jedi didn’t rush into attacking — their job was guarding them all, keeping them safe. Attacking was a reaction, never an action, and the lightsaber wasn’t a weapon as much as it was a tool to guarantee the safety of all.

 

Entering the Royal Apartments, he walked towards his padawan, who was watching the traffic outside the window. Coruscant night shone with the light of thousands of speeders passing by, with the brightness of the buildings bellow them. The stars could barely be seen under it’s reflective shields, at least in the Ambassadorial District. At the Temple, they could watch them move above their heads, but there, the only brightness came from what people had built.

 

“Morgana is safe and sound at the Temple, and His Majesty is more than safe in the 500 Republica,” he informed Merlin, and his padawan nodded in agreement. “Leon has more than enough men downstairs. No assassin will try that way, I’m sure. Any activity up here?”

 

“Quiet as a tomb,” Merlin replied, with a sigh. “I just don’t like this whole waiting for something to happen to him any more than he does.”

 

Mordred could feel a hint of something as his padawan spoke, and he stepped closer before asking.

 

“What’s going on?”

 

“The cameras are closed,” Merlin shrugged, and Mordred frowned.

 

“What is he thinking?” he asked, annoyed at the king’s continuous insistence that he didn’t need their help.

 

“I don’t think he likes me watching him,” offered Merlin with a hint of a smile, and Mordred groaned.

 

“Were you _staring_?” he asked, although he knew the answer.

 

“No!” Merlin replied, seeming offended for a moment, before he looked back sheepishly. “I didn’t even have the chance, really. He had already blocked all of them — but, hm, he has programmed I2-SA to warn us if there is an intruder.”

 

Mordred just exhaled loudly, this kid was going to be the death of him.

  
“Are we trusting in I2-SA to do our jobs now?” he enquired pointedly, and Merlin looked at his feet, seeming less sorry than Mordred would have liked. “Besides, there are many other ways to kill a man.”

 

“I know,” Merlin replied, rising his shoulders and putting his hands on the pockets of his robes in a movement that spoke more than enough about his feelings. “But we want to catch them trying, don’t we?”

 

Mordred was stunned for half a second before he could reply.

 

“You’re using him as bait!”

 

“It was his idea,” Merlin was quick to point out and Mordred shook his head, almost ready to scold Merlin — though he didn’t doubt Arthur had come up with the whole idea. It was just the sort of thing he would do, damn the man. It had been foolish to hope that Merlin would have more sense than that, because as himself had learnt first hand, Arthur was capable of convincing anyone of anything through pure charm — and Merlin had some sort of idol worship for that man that just made it easy. His padawan was still trying to make himself seem sure of his actions. “No harm will come to him, trust me,” he continued, and Mordred just put his hands on his hips, shaking his head continuously. “I can sense everything going on in that room.”

 

Mordred had to snort at that.

 

“Your senses aren’t that well attuned, my young apprentice.”

 

Merlin always seemed to be offended when reminded him of their age difference — not that seven years were that much, and Mordred couldn’t help but try to wind him up now, not when he was making his life harder.

 

“And yours are?”

 

There was some sort of challenge in his voice, and those were not uncommon from him. It was part of their relationship; and Mordred wouldn’t have wanted any other way. Nimueh, too, had pushed him and challenged him, and made him a better Jedi because of it — now, with Merlin, he kept on growing. Neither his master nor his padawan were glad with just doing things because they ought to be done, just because it was the way things were. The need to explain and justify made him think about it, to become critical, and to learnt to go beyond the line of duty.

 

None of these were what Merlin’s tone implied, a mix of jealously and curiosity that Mordred had seen before. He didn’t even know how much of it was his fault, and every attempt he had done at curbing it had been half-hearted, as it was part of what made Merlin special — what made him different from the score of Jedi that walked the Temple halls. His _heart_ was his greatest asset and his greatest curse.

 

“Possibly,” he answered, with a grin of his own, and Merlin huffed.

 

 

Mordred stopped to watch his padawan closely for a second, and noticed the bags growing under his eyes, the mess of his hair, the way the first hints of beard were starting to show up in his jaw, as if he couldn’t have bothered cleaning then even knowing he was meant to keep his face clear until his knighting. It made Mordred’s heart ache.

 

“You look tired.”

 

“I don’t sleep well anymore,” Merlin confessed, his shoulders rising again, looking at his feet.

 

“Because of your mother?” Mordred knew the answer, but sometimes there was nothing to be done but to talk about it.

 

“I keep dreaming of her,” Merlin explained, though they had had this conversation before. “I don’t know why. There’s no reason to…”

 

“Dreams pass, in time,” he offered, and he knew it was a weak excuse, especially to those who were around Morgana so often.

 

“Yeah,” Merlin agreed, looking away. “I would rather dream about anything else” he continued, a mischievous grin coming to his face. “Or _someone_ else.”

 

Mordred shook his head — it was a conversation they had had before. He often would damn Nimueh for deciding that it wasn’t a problem to have _certain conversations_ in front of impressionable children. Still, it was hard to keep something of a smile off his face, because it reminded him also of her rebellious nature and how much it had made her a better Jedi, even if somewhat Gray.

 

“Be mindful of your thoughts, Merlin, they betray you,” he said again, trying to banish the images and feelings Merlin was projecting — unwittingly or not — in his head. “You’ve made a commitment to the Jedi Order, a commitment not easily broken.”

 

“I was not thinking of breaking it,” guaranteed Merlin, but he didn’t look in the slightest as if he was trying to control his head. “It’s just that…”

 

“He’s a politician,” reminded Mordred, no need to specify who he was talking about, he had seen the glint in Merlin’s eye upon meeting Arthur again. “He may not be a senator, but he is _still_ a politician, and nothing good ever coming from trusting those.”

 

“Arthur’s _not_ like the senators,” he dismissed easily, and of course that Mordred agreed, but giving in would lead them anywhere productive.

 

“And yet, in my experience, Kings and Queens care only about keeping their power and they are _not_ that democratic as to uphold the Republic’s principles above their own prestige and privilege. They may _say_ he has the best public interest at heart, but it starts with money — if it weren’t threatening the riches of Camelot…”

 

“You’re not going to lecture me again, will you?” Merlin complained, shaking his head. “At least not in the economics of politics.”

 

“It seems you haven’t learnt it well enough yet,” pointed out Mordred, and his padawan rolled his eyes.

 

“You are just generalising — and I’m _not_ talking about Kings and Queens in general, I’m talking about _Arthur_ , the man who set us in a table and pledged himself to equality in all things.”

 

“It served him well, didn’t it?” Mordred questioned, trying to make Merlin see beyond the golden tinted lens of his childhood. “Never has a man been so beloved of his people, so respected by the others.”

 

“I don’t think he’s faking it!” protested Merlin, and Mordred nodded.

 

“Nor do I — but that much power, it has brought _more_ than things for himself, Chancellor Uther…”

 

“He doesn’t appear to be corrupt,” Merlin said, with a frown. “Harsh, yes, and far too stubborn, but _money_ doesn’t seem to matter as much to him as other things.”

 

“Uther has grown into a fine politician,” was all he could reply, crossing his arms in his chest. “I have observed that in the last years, he has grown very good at following the passions and prejudices of the Senators in name of making them do what he thinks it’s best.”

 

“I’m not saying he’s a good man,” explained the padawan, lowering his voice, clearly not wanting to be overheard, “but I think he _has_ the best interests of the Republic…”

 

Mordred wasn’t listening anymore, because his extremities were tingling. There was no doubt that something was wrong inside the room what Arthur was sleeping in.

 

“I sense it too!” Merlin said, and together they rushed inside the bedroom.

 

His lightsaber was in his hand before he even fully registered what he was seeing — Merlin jumping over the bed and slashing some sort of worm in two while Arthur lit up the electricity around his own sword — in bed with him — to burn another. Mordred’s eyes zeroed on the device that was still vomiting slugs inside the bedroom, and he didn’t need to think about what to do.

 

Getting an impulse, Mordred rushed ahead and jumped, his lightsaber cutting through the glass easily, before he was in the air, one hand closing around the flying robot while the other felt around to put the lightsaber back in his belt. The droid fell a few feet with the increased weight, Mordred swaying dangerously for a second before he managed to grip at it more surely — both hands on the machine. Beings inside speeders yelled at him, but there was no way he was going to let go now.

 

He just hoped it wouldn't take Merlin too long to catch up.


	3. Chapter 3

 

For all that his life included its far share of unusual situations, Mordred didn’t fancy himself an adventurer. Certainly, he didn’t look for the sort of thrill that seemed to be the fuel of life to some people — warriors, soldiers, bounty hunters, and so forth. He would much have preferred a quiet life, contemplation and study, but, alas, this was not to be his path.

 

Still, flying around Coruscant’s heavy traffic while holding on a droid owned by an assassin wasn’t even making his top ten. Not pleasant, certainly dangerous, but he felt somewhat confident he could make it. The trick, of course, was not looking down to the endless levels below, where a fall would take him.

 

There was preciously little oxygen this high, outside the protective capsules that were a natural part of most buildings, and everywhere vehicles rushed in a streak of light. Wind buffeted his face and arms, making them burn, but as a Jedi Mordred had learnt to rise above such discomforts. Mind over body — eyes on his goal, on the information he was about to retrieve.

 

The droid kept rushing through the air, speeding out of the Ambassadorial area and closer and closer to The Works, the old industrial district of the capital. It was mostly abandoned now — parts of it hadn’t been used in millennia, where droids had taken control and kept running city maintenance with technologies and patterns they couldn’t even recognise anymore, hostile to all organics, lords of their own domain. Almost all the rest of the district had gone from a active, commercially heavy area housing thousands of fabrics to a fallen to such a rundown and dangerous state that it could give Nar Shadaa a run for its money. As it made a sharp turn left, the thing showed its first true sign of intelligence, as it swayed close enough to a building’s side as to crush his hand against it. Mordred didn’t even gasp in surprise, having seen it coming, and just gripped harder. The movement made clear that he was getting closer to the point where the assassin might be found, and he wasn’t going to let go.

 

Breathing in, he became one with the Force, and expended his senses, looking for Merlin. After ten years, his padawan’s signature was as familiar to Mordred as his own, more familiar than anything else in the universe. Reaching out to him was as natural as breathing.  He could feel him now, rushing through the air, his energy as golden as ever, and Mordred turned his focus back to the present.

He looked ahead, to what was coming, and there were still too many options. He heard someone yell at him, a curse or whatever, complaining of Jedi manners, and Mordred mentally apologised to whatever Master would have to deal with the complaints about his particular method of chasing, but there was no time to lose.

Just as the droid seemed to start homing in somewhere – a tall building, filled with lights and commercials, but not particularly remarkable in any other way – it disappeared. Mordred needed a nanosecond to realise that it had been shot down, and he was in free fall through the air.

He leaned his body as much as he could, spreading his arms and legs to slow down his fall. He held his breath, keeping his heart in check, immensely calm as he kept on moving lower and lower, past different lanes of speeders, and nothing said Coruscant and Home more than the fact that most people barely took notice of him. Not that falling beings were that common, but that here, more than anywhere in the galaxy, Jedi gimmicks went unnoticed.

He dropped down through what seemed an eternity, but was still kilometres away from the planet’s surface when he noticed, through the corner of his eye, Merlin doing a nose dive with a speeder and coming for him. There was no surprise in him, because _of course_ that Merlin was going to arrive in time. They were attuned enough for him to know that. He watched as Merlin tried to position himself quickly on Mordred’s downward path.

Exhaling, Mordred stretched his arms ahead and gripped the back of the blue speeder Merlin had favoured, barely feeling the burning sensation that spread through his muscles as he hit the metal. His padawan continued to drive in a speed that would be incredible to anyone else, but was actually rather tame to Merlin’s standards, while Mordred slithered his body over the metal, until he reached the open cockpit. Easing himself on the passenger seat and pulling up the seat belt over his chest, Mordred turned towards his apprentice with a huff.

“What took you so long?!”

 

* * *

 

Merlin barely had time to consider how many slugs there were to kill before Mordred was jumping out of the window and grabbing the droid. He would have snorted at the idea, if there was time enough for it. As it were, he merely looked around, making sure the immediate threat to Arthur’s life was gone.

“Stay here,” he said, as Leon rushed in.

“What happened?” the Knight asked, but he had no time to answer it, or the following question. “Where’s Mordred?”

Running into the balcony that doubled as a private landing deck to Camelot’s Royal Apartments, Merlin immersed himself in the Force and allowed it to pick a speeder for him among the three available. He barely noticed it was blue with golden streaks on the sides before he was already sitting in the open cockpit and pulling backwards to dive into Coruscant’s sky.

He had missed flying like this.

Trusting his instincts rather than his senses, he veered the vehicle in the correct direction, feeling for his master in the midst of a planet filled with billions of being of different species. It took him a few seconds before he found his trace, for Mordred had an uncanny ability of just blending in with the environment as he focused. Merlin pushed the pedals harder, flying forwards as quickly as the vehicle would take him.

He ignored the signs and the common paths in the sky, still heavy with traffic even at this late hour. It meant nothing to him, and it wasn’t aimed at him – he didn’t need them, adjusting himself automatically to each current of air, allowing it to help him or easing them if they threatened to take him far from his objective. To someone who had spent his childhood running podraces across the Outer Rim, this wasn’t a challenge as much as a second nature.

Merlin felt more than saw Mordred free falling through the air. What had he been thinking to let go like this? It didn’t matter, and part of Merlin’s mind was already twisting the speeder into a short nose dive until he was comfortably bellow Mordred. He kept looking backwards to make sure that his forwards progress wasn’t going to make him miss his master completely, and was graced with a loud thud when the upper part of his body hit the speeder. The vehicle bounced slightly, but it was not more than a small breeze, nothing he couldn’t account for and move on.

Focusing ahead once again, he let his teacher crawl his way into the cockpit, careful not to speed up too much and lose him again. With Mordred found, he could now focus his senses on the assassin that was their true chase. He felt as his master sprawled himself on the seat with a tad less grace than his usual, pulling the seat belt in a reflexive action as he huffed.

“What took you so long?”

There was no true impatience in his tone, more of a jab on the boy he had seen driving much faster. Stepping on the pedals, Merlin grinned at him.

“Oh, you know – the usual. Couldn’t find a speeder I liked, one whose colour matched my robes...”

“There he is!” Mordred said, pointing ahead, and still Merlin continued, as if he hadn’t noticed.

“You know, with a fashionable open cockpit for rescue of fallen masters and the right speeding capabilities.”

Mordred didn’t laugh at it, but there was no mistaking the humour underneath his grumpy tone.

“If you spent as much time honing your lightsaber skills as you do with your wit, you’d be a match to Master Kilgharrah himself.”

“I thought I already was!” Jested Merlin, and Mordred snorted.

“Only if you tie him down to the ground!”

Merlin laughed out loud at this, loving the feeling of wild wind against his face, the thrill of the chase, rushing through the air with an aim in mind. It was much better than waiting for something to come.

He could see the other speeder now – yellow and green, with a covered cockpit that made sure the driver wouldn’t be hit by anything on the outside; a sturdy and safe choice but not nearly as fancy as the one they were using. They were getting close, in spite of the assassin’s attempts to lose them, jumping in the middle of the speeding lane and cutting through it on the wrong side of traffic. Merlin just kept going, careful enough not to endanger any of the other drivers, who had, after all, nothing to do with this mess. It hadn’t stopped them from getting close, but the extra care meant he also couldn’t reach the driver. A smart move, that counted on their respect for all living things.

Undoubtedly the assassin knew he was dealing with Jedi. He must also known, then, that there was no real chance of winning this – that it was far beyond his skills. The most he could hope for was to mix itself to the crowd, counting on how common his own model was. The yellow speeder turned its nose down and rushed to the lower levels, and Merlin made half a spin that had Mordred gripping his seat before coming down behind him.

They were on a 90 degree path down, and still the landscape of the ground was something that couldn’t even be guessed at this distance. Through three more lanes they passed, Merlin getting ever closer, until he saw a dome that would serve his purpose better than anything – a false sense of security could go a long way in reassuring someone to the point of making a mistake.

As they closed in on the building, Mordred started to grip his seat harder.

“Pull up!” he said, failing to keep his composure. Merlin ignored the order, continuing on his way, even as his master repeated. “Pull up! Pull up!”

It was the best thing about flying, the way he felt free – free of everything – sure, in a way that was impossible to be sure in the midst of chaos, calm even while his master held his arm. As long as he could, Merlin continued to dive, until in the last second, already hidden by the curve of the construction, he pulled up. The air currents quickly kicked them up, and they were again on a steady track against the assassin who, lacking Merlin’s skill, had needed to slow down.

“I hate when you do this,” Mordred complained, and Merlin giggled before apologising.

“I’m sorry, master,” he said, his voice still filled with mirth. “I forget you don’t like flying.”

“I don’t mind _flying,_ ” Mordred corrected him, with a huff. “What _you_ are doing, on the other hand, is suicide.”

“Don’t you trust me?” Merlin asked, though he knew the answer in his heart, and Mordred merely snorted.

“It’s not about trust – it’s about caution – I am _sure_ you would do your best not to kill us, but that doesn’t make you invincible and certainly doesn’t preclude the machine from deciding it has had enough with your antics and going out of control.”

“When have I ever lost control of a machine?!”

“There’s always a first time — and let’s not even talk about your _landing_ skills…”

Merlin just shook his head, focusing instead on the path the assassin was taking. They had been rushing through the very limits of the Ambassadorial area, but now there was no doubt about his path: down into The Works. Of course, there was no better place to hide in all of Coruscant.

It had been long since The Works had seen the sort of diverse clientele and flourishing industry that had given its name; for centuries now it had been left mostly empty. Thousands still milled about day and night, but what once was a place for employees and buyers, had slowly become a place for the worst kind of beings that could reach the capital – those dealing in drugs, those dealing in murder, those dealing in money instead of honour, those running from dangers they did not dare speak about.

The abandoned part of the city was a nest of vipers, and where else would an assassin hide? Most of it was in shadows, falling into pieces, and sprawling around kilometres enough that was bigger than some moons. It was a place where the Light the Jedi served seemed to dim under the scourge that sentient beings were capable of producing and the unending sound of the machines that were the true rules of this territory. Merlin was deeply aware of how little Mordred liked the place, but for someone who had grown under the rule of the Hutts, the works felt strangely reminiscent of home.

At the edge, some buildings still worked – those providing essential services, that could not be brought from the outside. Day and night, the factories continued – burning an amount of waste that may come to fill blackholes, providing the light that made the capital shine from the outer space. The assassin didn’t bother hiding his destination now – zooming in and out around the tall chimneys that vomited fire. Merlin felt the heat, but it was almost as a lover’s kiss after the cold brought by the wind.

They weren’t getting any closer, but neither were they losing ground. As the yellow speeder moved to pass through the double towers of power couplings, Merlin made his own vehicle go faster, aiming to finally get to him as it slowed down – but assassins would never grow older if they weren’t smart and had good aims, and he shoot the lower part of the tower with some laser, making the thing come up. Merlin could see the purple rays, but it was now too late to move away.

“How many times have I told you,” Mordred yelled over the wind “to stay away from power couplings?”

There was no time to answer while they were hit by it, their bodies trembling with the jolt of energy. Merlin surrendered his will to the Force, allowing himself to feel not only his own body, but Mordred’s and the speeder itself, and gently willing it to go on even as the threads of electricity kept on coming for them on the other side. Thankfully, the speeder seemed none worse for the wear after it.

Mordred, on the other hand, was laughing with unabashed joy.

“That was good!”

Merlin looked at him sideways and grinned. It was always best like these, when it was just the two of them, no need for formalities. At those moments, they were partners, a team, and just the presence of others forced them into the sort of teacher-student relationship that was common among Jedi.

It had slowed them down, though, and given the assassin time to make a sharp turn, coming back from where they had come from, just at the edge of the limits of the district, pushing forward faster in the direction of the new commercial district. It was, by far, the area with more people around at this time of the night, and the best place to hide himself at the multitude of speeders.

Merlin turned as well, following as close as he could. Neither said a word as they crossed the night sky of Coruscant, as they watched their prey turn back into the heavy traffic and hasten into a building-tunnel that would lead him straight into the Commercial district.

It took Merlin a second to make up his mind, and he avoided it, following the side curve of the construction instead, while Mordred looked around wildly.

“What are you doing?” he asked, gesturing towards the tunnel. “He went the other way!”

“It’s a shortcut” Merlin informed, and Mordred just huffed.

“Are you some sort of specialist in the area now?”

Merlin rolled his eyes at his master’s question, before pointing out the obvious.

“We’re close to the place they had podraces,” he reminded Mordred, observing the traffic carefully. “You know the one.”

“The one I needed to rescue you from and never heard a word of thanks?”

“I would have thanked you, if you allowed me to speak at all,” Merlin pointed out, and Mordred snorted.

“Somehow, I doubt it,” his master countered, “you were not very happy with me then – or with anything, if I may remember.”

“That was ages ago,” Merlin dismissed, “We’ll get on the other side before he does.”

“So you say,” Mordred spit back, crossing his arms on his chest. “but you’re going _around_ it, and let me remind you, young padawan, that tunnels are made _to make things closer_. You should have followed him in.”

“If we keep this chase up, he’ll end up deep fried,” he said, skidding away from a large cruiser. “And I don’t know about you, but I don’t want him _dead_ – the _dead_ have the terrible habit of not giving much information.”

Mordred snorted, shaking his head.

“I hope you’re right about this. Losing him in the middle of the city isn’t a very good way of finding out who he is and who he’s working for.”

“ _You_ had the lead and you dropped it – literally!” Merlin pointed out and Mordred seemed to be a bit offended.

“I was _shot_ out of it!”

“Whatever you say, master.”

They were now around the whole complex, but Merlin couldn’t see the speeder anywhere. He took a deep breath, searching for its signature in the Force, just as Mordred was surely doing. There wasn’t a single hint of it, and he allowed the speeder to halt to a stop.

“Great,” Mordred said, his voice heavy with irony. “Now we lost him – he went completely the other way!”

Merlin was hearing with just a shred of attention, as he kept scourging for any traces of the assassin until he found it – but it was too far bellow and there was no way they could make it in time that way, so Merlin did the only thing he could think of in that moment.

“If you excuse me,” he told his master and jumped.

* * *

 

Mordred hated when Merlin did this.

Now, it was at least partially his fault, because it was _his_ student after all, but there were things that no one could avoid – as Merlin’s self-sacrificing nature. The whole stopping to consider before doing was still a work in progress. To think that, at that age, Mordred himself was already a knight and with someone he needed to look for.

Shaking his head, he opened his seatbelt and moved to the driver’s place. He didn’t have even one tenth of Merlin’s talent with piloting, but there was little he could do but try and follow to the best of his abilities as his padawan fell through the city sky. Moving the speeder from its resting position, Mordred started to descend, keeping track of Merlin through the Force when his eyes couldn’t see him. He felt a lurch in his stomach as his apprentice managed to grab the yellow speeder down below – one less thing to worry about. It would have been hard to explain how the Chosen One had become a spray of bones and blood on Coruscant’s ground.

He ignored the many changes in his mood as the younger man fought to keep himself on the speeder, but Mordred never doubted his ability to do so. Now that he had _something_ to hold on into, he could slow down to reasonable speed. Still, Merlin was hindering the assassin’s ability to pilot to a point where soon they were within his human sight. Mordred could see the green blade of Merlin’s lightsaber as he forcibly opened up the cockpit, trying to stop the speeder once and for all, but in such close quarters, it wasn’t of much use. Soon, it was flying through the hair.

Mordred slowed down a bit more, sticking out his hand and catching it. Merlin had a penchant to lose things, his lightsaber being the main victim of it. It was just one of those things Mordred has long since gotten used to – along with Merlin’s complete clumsiness when he wasn’t focused – fighting or piloting, there was no one as graceful, but walking seemed to be beyond him for some reason – and the uncanny ability to fail at any sort of politics. Too honest, the kid was. It was a wonder, really, that he had survived long enough as a slave for them to find him.

He sighed, continuing his chase of the yellow speeder, but calm was all around him now. There was no way the assassin could escape them, not with Merlin that close to him; it was a beacon that any Jedi could find, even systems away. Almost blinding, he was in the Force, and Mordred could rest assured that they would at least get to him.

It was easy to just breath in, let the lesser part of his mind follow the controls while the rest expanded, merging himself with the Force, learning its will. There was not _Mordred_ , not anymore, just the energy that flew in all of them. He could taste the fear in the assassin’s skin – a woman, it seemed, young and beautiful, with a taste underneath her human traces that was not human at all – and dismissed it. He _was_ Merlin as his padawan held on, the sudden slowing of the speeder sending him to the edge of the ship. He was both as she shot and he dangled from the pointy edge before swinging his legs and coming back in, blocking her whole view.

Merlin didn’t need to see where they were going anymore than Mordred did. They had the Force to guide them, but, while he could sense she might have been strong in it, she wasn’t trained in its ways, and it hindered her more than helped. Speeding up, she sent Merlin hauling backwards, and Mordred kept on coming closer even then, because he _knew_ where they were going – down and down and down to the ground.

His eyes might have seen Merlin climbing back to his previous position on top of the speeder, and when his hand curled around her wrist, Mordred could feel the coldness of her skin, so unlike anything human. A changeling, then, or a full sidhe. He accompanied without interfering as Merlin turned her blaster to the panel, shooting it, and making it catch on fire.

It was _not_ the choice he would have made, but he wasn’t a man to interfere with another’s judgement. Exhaling, he allowed himself to come back to his own body and to it alone, carefully watching while the yellow speeder lost height, dropping quickly towards the busy ground level, still hundreds of meters above the planet’s real surface. Mordred only hoped Merlin would have enough sense to jump out of it before it crashed – those didn’t seem like major flames, but it were still flames and the results may be unpleasant. It wouldn’t do to have to stop the chase to look after his broken padawan.

The lower they got, the louder the sounds of the failing speeder were in the midst of the mountain high buildings and the population walking around started to shout warnings. Most knew exactly how to react, since it wasn’t all that uncommon for a speeder to break and come to landfall before reaching some open landing deck, and it made Mordred feel at ease with the whole situation. Lowering his speeder, he started to search for a place where to park it – it seemed to him that the next step of this would be done on the ground.

He saw as Merlin let go of the vehicle, taking a bad tumble to the pavement, but it was nothing to worry about. Finding a spot, he parked, hoping that the speeder would be there when they returned – Coruscant was mostly safe under Uther Pendragon’s iron fist of order and security, but with just a few hours left before dawn, it was just the best moment for those with bad intentions to come out, and they were still close enough to The Works for some to believe they could get away with anything.

Not that he cared much about the speeder – surely it wouldn’t be too hard to find another way to leave this place with the full authority of the Jedi, but he would prefer not to have to fill in reports to justify the spending of credits on replacing the vehicle that, now that he thought about it, he didn’t even know who it belonged to or how Merlin had come by it.

He could only hope that it had been one of those left of the usage of the Camelot party, it would avoid a lot of explaining and writing. He was always through with his reports, but it didn’t make them any less of a burden.

Picking up his apprentice’s lost lightsaber, he got out of the speeder and locked it as well as he could, before walking on the street to the opposite side that the speeder was facing. He could see now the flames starting to spread, but the fire service would arrive soon – the assassin was his aim now. There was no point in worrying about the rest. He saw as Merlin, wrapped in dark brown, ran towards the entrance of a club, and walked a bit faster to meet him.

“Merlin!” He called, when he was close enough, and his padawan spun around to face him.

“She went that way!” he warned, as if Mordred couldn’t see it clearly.

“I know,” he answered, calmly. “You need to learn to be patient.”

Merlin gapped at him, with that way he had of making it clear he wasn’t following his logic. Mordred sighed, raising his eyebrows.

“She didn’t go in there to run, she’s hiding,” he explained, putting his hand on Merlin’s shoulder. “Use the Force – think first, do later.”

“I thought we were meant to give ourselves fully to the Force and let it act through us,” Merlin replied, sullenly, and Mordred smiled softly.

“Different moments, different techniques. You’ve done it remarkably well with letting yourself go until now, but there is no need for it anymore. You know how much energy it wastes, doing something like this – now, slow down.”

Merlin nodded, seeming to understand his point, before turning his back and as he was about to start entering again, Mordred picked something up from his pocket.

“Look at what I’ve found,” he said, with a raised eyebrow, rolling the lightsaber through his fingers as if it were a stick. “Do you happen to know who it belongs to?”

Merlin blushed, looking down.

“I’m sorry” he said, and Mordred smiled.

“I know – but, Merlin, this weapon is your life.”

“I know,” the younger man answer tiredly. “Try not to lose it,” he said at the same time Mordred did, and the master snorted.

“You think you’re being funny.”

“No, I just think you’ve said it enough,” he countered, as the two of them started to walk inside, slowly now, and it not for their traditionally simple clothing, they might be confused with regulars.

“I would have thought so too, but _still_ you can’t keep it with you.”

“I try, master,” Merlin replied, his mouth turning down. “I really do.”

“And yet...” Mordred sighed. “Why do I get the feeling you’re going to be the death of me?”

Merlin’s eyebrows rose in surprise, seeming somewhat shocked by the idea.

“Don’t even say that,” he pleaded, walking closer to Mordred. “I couldn’t bear the idea...” he shook his head. “You’re the closest thing to family I still have.”

It broke Mordred’s heart to hear him speak like this, but at the same time, he knew it was _wrong_. Attachments – even to masters – were not something that should be encouraged. It was not the Jedi way. Still, he didn’t have the heart to part himself from Merlin that way, just as he didn’t have the will to consider Morgana just another Jedi, or Nimueh simply a person that was no long around. He cared about bonds, more than he should, and _how_ could he scold his padawan for a failing he shared? Merlin had been a child that felt so much and so deeply, and it was one of the things that had made so many care so fiercely for him, fight for him.

Merlin’s giant heart made him think of Nimueh and the things she would say sometimes during her own instructions – things that weren’t in accordance to the Code, but that shouldn’t be discarded. She never lied about the potential for darkness that attachments brought, but more than this, she made sure he saw, too, the potential for greatness in them. Compassion was well and good, but true understanding and keen rapport went a long way in training someone as gifted as Merlin, and at the same time, it might blind him to his faults. Not being sure — that was the main reason he hadn’t let Merlin go on to his trials. If the padawan failed — it would have been Mordred’s failure, and he would have failed the boy he had grown to love and failed in his promise to his master as well. Yet, in keeping him close, he might he bringing more harm than good, making these bonds deeper in a way they could never be completely undone. It was one of those paradoxes that he didn’t know if he’d ever solve.

Mordred just squeezed his arm instead of replying, feeling in himself the comfort he was offering, and Merlin looked down for a second before the entrance corridor ended and they entered the main area of the club. Immediately their senses sharpened, all focus back on the mission, and none left for lessons or personal emotions.

It seemed to be one of those places with an unsavoury reputation, but still not a cheap place to be. Looking around, Mordred could see the different screens playing different things, while all sorts of species mingled together. It was hard to miss the amount of females, many scantily clad, and around most of them, males gathered with drinks, trying to find some company for the night. A part of him wondered how many of those people – male or female – were there selling their bodies as a service, and if it would make their mission harder.

He could feel her, but he hadn’t seen her face once, and in the midst of dozens of people, it was more difficult to isolate someone like that. Turning around to face his padawan, he started speaking.

“I think she is a changeling – so be extra careful,” he warned, and he nodded. With a look to the side, he asked “Can you see her?”

“Not from here,” he answered, scourging the place with his eyes. Mordred nodded.

“Very well – find her then.”

“What are you doing?” Merlin asked, surprised, and Mordred raised an eyebrow at him.

“I’m getting a drink.”

Merlin seemed about ready to protest the injustice of it, before he caught up with the idea behind it – making himself harmless, the bait, Mordred could make sure she would come close for them to apprehend her. A little distraction and a little of overconfidence could help a lot in cases like these – and people who killed for a living were known for being too sure of themselves; it seemed to be a normal side effect of holding another’s life in one’s hands.

Mordred walked to the bar as his padawan started to make the rounds on the place. He gestured the bartender for a drink, as Merlin stood tall amongst the people that were enjoying themselves, his face concentrated. He probably didn’t even notice how most of the females and a good portion of the males were ogling him. Mordred smiled to the glass he received – Merlin had the ability to be shameless in a moment and absolutely oblivious in the next that was almost endearing. Not that Mordred could blame them for it, Merlin had a presence that went way beyond his Force abilities, something natural and charming, making heads turn to him. Had he been smiling, they’d probably be falling at his feet.

A Balosar stopped next to Mordred, his antennae moving slowly, as if trying to sense him. Mordred said nothing, and continued to savour his drink, but he wasn’t completely surprised when the Balosar spoke to him.

“Do you wanna buy some deathsticks?” He – most certainly a male – asked.

Mordred inspired slowly. The boy – younger even than Merlin, twenty at the most – must be using his own drugs if he was so out of it as to not recognise the clear Jedi style of his clothing. Most of the time, the mere fact that he _was_ one meant drug dealers stayed well away from him, but it seemed that today it wouldn’t be that simple. Well, nothing in the day had been, so there was no surprise in it.

Tugging the Force just so, he raised his hand slightly.

“You don’t want to sell me deathsticks,” he told the man, and he repeated immediately, if looking a bit confused.

“I don’t want to sell you deathsticks.”

It might have been enough, but if there was something – anything – Mordred could do to help... Well, who was he to say no? He gestured again with his hand as he continued talking.

“You want to go home and rethink your life.”

“I wanna go home and rethink my life,” the other repeated, standing up. There was a small dose of fear and something of hope as he walked out. It may not last more than a few days, but even a few days may be enough to set him back on the right track.

Mordred was taken out of his thoughts on dealing and drug usage in Coruscant by an unmistakable presence, growing closer. One simple touch of his mind had been enough to make him recognise it now, as the assassin stepped closer to him. Calm as still water, he waited, his hands moving naturally, his eyes seeming glued to one of the screens as he sipped. Merlin was still walking around, his back to them, and Mordred counted the steps in his head.

Closer and closer, the assassin approached. Mordred could smell her intent as well as he could hear the sound of her gun being readied on the middle of the loud music – which was to say, perfectly.

Three steps.

He landed his glass lightly on the counter, leaning more on his left arm.

Two steps.

His right hand curled around the lightsaber, ready.

One step.

Modred could almost feel her against him, though in reality some space separated them.

Her next step was the signal he’d been waiting for – Mordred was still spinning when his hand moved, cutting of half of her arm. It made her fall back on the floor, and Mordred could see her face for the first time.

She _was_ lovely – honey coloured locks, heart-shaped mouth, slightly rounded face – but underneath the fake brown, red swirled in her irises, and a strong smell of honeysuckle swirled around her even through charred meat and cut bones. She didn’t look defeated, though, but proud in her pain, chin raised high. Under other circumstances, he might have come to respect her for it. As it was, there was nothing that he wanted but information.

 _That_ he was about to get, whether she liked it or not.

* * *

 

Merlin had been doing his best to ignore the sense of dread that had been growing, but he didn’t even try to control the relief he felt when he saw Mordred’s blue sabre cutting through the air and slashing the assassin’s arm away. People around turned to the pair of them, but Mordred was already putting his arm around her body and pulling her up with a kindness that seemed at odds with his attack.

“Jedi business,” he informed, with a daft smile. “Go back to your drinks!”

Some muttered under his breath, but no one interrupted as Mordred walked her out. Merlin rushed to join him, as he lowered the changeling’s body on the street outside the club.

“Do you know who you were trying to kill?” his master asked, his voice calm.

“Camelot’s King, yeah,” she answered, with a sigh, the only sign of pain she had let out.

“And who hired you?” he enquired, but she just shook her head.

“I was just a job,” she offered, and Mordred raised an eyebrow.

“You go around killing royals that easily?” his face showed he clearly wasn’t convinced. “Somehow, it doesn’t strike me as your sort of job...”

“Sophia,” she offered, and he nodded. “My father... It was the price for the pardon.”

“It’s okay,” Mordred reassured her. “I get it. You’re _not_ the one we’re looking for, we just want to know who hired you. Tell us.”

Up close, she seemed young, far younger than before, and frightened.

“It’s just...”

“You can trust us, Sophia,” Merlin tried, hoping to soothe her. “Just tell us...”

“Why does anyone even care? It’s just some fancy rich politician. ”

How could someone _not_ care about Arthur? The dismissal seemed like more of an offence than the attempt had been. Frowning, he ordered her around, putting the strength of his will under it, ordering with the Force without even meaning to. Mordred’s eyes flew up to him in shock and ready to reprimand, but Sophia was already giving in, and her voice pulled their attention back towards her.

“I was a bounty hunted named...”

Destiny, fate or dumb luck – which ever anyone chose – was _not_ by their side. Before Sophia could utter the name, a toxic dart impaled itself in her neck immediately claiming her life. Under their eyes, her body changed and shifted, growing lighter and blue dominated her skin, a true sidhe.

They both watched as the said bounty hunter shot through the air, using some sort of jetpack that allowed him to rise to the sky. Mordred shook his head for a second, as if mourning the waste of lives, before his hand closed in around the dark and pulled it out. Some of the blood was still wet and hot, but for how long he didn’t know.

Mordred pulled up the dark, examining it as carefully was if it was the answer to all their questions – which it may as well be.

Now they just had to discover where it came from.

 

 

 


	4. Chapter 4

 

As the postcard of the Republic, one would think the Senate building would be impressive. However, from the outside, it seemed underwhelming, at least when compared to some of the other buildings in Coruscant, that rose higher and seemed more attractive to general eyes. Still, there was an undeniable majesty in it, where it set, at the end of the Avenue of the Core Founders, their shiny statues preceding the round open space of the Senate Plaza where potted plants and benches peppered the road to the main building, as well as the routes leading to other districts.

To each of the Senate’s side, as if trying to bring balance to the huge concrete and steel structure that sprawled for over two kilometres, gardens came up, colouring the grey with leaves and flowers from as many different places as there were planets in the Republic. The Eastern side was named “Garden of Justice”, while the western was called “Garden of Equality”. They were supposed to be peaceful places, outside the hustle and bustle of the Senate, a place for contemplation and rest, but Morgana knew too well from her years as Gaius padawan that it was not so. Everywhere in Coruscant, not only in the Ambassadorial area, politics were being discussed at all times.

Rising over the bones of the old Senate Hall, the Senate Building was constructed in a form not dissimilar to a massive round shield. As a young woman, Morgana had considered it fitting, for there stood those who were meant to defend the very meaning of the word Democracy. She could still remember her first visit to it, half a lifetime ago. She had been impressed by the tall and slim twin towers that guarded it, the size of it all that seemed impossibly majestic in a way that was completely different to the Jedi Temple grandeur.

Now just the sight of it made her feel tired, even before they got there. She took a deep breath, steeling herself for what was to come, even if technically she had no business being there. Merlin was the one tagging along as part of Arthur’s security scheme, along with Leon and Elyan and a dozen others. Had it been someone else, it might even be seen as if the Jedi Order endorsed Arthur’s actions, but there were perks of being wildly known to be Uther’s daughter.

She adjusted her large robes as they walked towards the Senate, almost a parade, a show for Arthur’s enemies that he didn’t fear their attempts. It was brave, but also stupid, and only her Sight allowed her to walk calmly through it. Merlin, on the other hand, didn’t seem at ease. It was clear that the night’s chase had taken something of a toll in his rest, and she was left wondering if him and Mordred had even slept.

Not that sleeping always brought rest, she knew it too well. Training and experience had allowed her to control her visions at will, but there were always those strong enough to break through her slumber and make her wake up startled. Those had been becoming more and more frequent in the last year, which was part of the reason why she had decided to join their party. She could see, clearly as day, that this was a crossing point, and whatever glimpses it may show her, could help them all plan for days to come, and there was little that Morgana feared more than being swept by the war storms without direction.

She ignored the looks of the people around as they approached the Senate dome, focusing instead on Arthur. He seemed more tired than he was letting on, but that was the Pendragon way. His jaw was set in a firm line, as if he was reading himself for a combat, which, well, was an apt comparison. Now, instead of fighting enemies, he would be trying to gather allies, to prepare them all for what was to come.

Morgana knew from whispers and comments that Chancellor Uther didn’t fully agree with his actions, but it was beyond his power to control whatever Arthur did as a King. The training as a knight was a jealously guarded privilege in Albion, and until one generation ago, only those whose blood was undoubtedly noble could even join its ranks – the rest may be called guards; soldiers; sentinels; archers; pilots; but never knights. Now Arthur was proposing to allow even people from outside of their sector to join, and it was more than Uther’s traditionalist heart could handle.

Still, he wasn’t the sort to try and block his son’s actions, whatever he thought of them. If Uther believed in anything above the Republic, it was in the royal prerogative at making decisions. It was the very thing that Arthur had called upon to guarantee their father would allow him to speak about their pact to all those on the Senate; and pride had been behind his allowance for the HoloNet recording of his speech. Morgana wondered if Arthur was nervous, but the king’s face was a smooth mask of someone trained from birth to deal with stressful situations.

The crews were filming them, and she saw from the corner of her eye how Merlin fidgeted at it, uncomfortable at the attention even if it wasn’t directed at him. She wondered how he would deal when it _was_ him they were all looking at, but it was something that only time could tell.

Senator Aredian was waiting for them under the Great Door, no one coming close to him, save for the other six Albion Representatives that stood behind him in a pyramid formation. It was a clear show, but an effective one, as the representative for Camelot bowed low to greet his King under the Great Seal of the Republic and the seals of a thousand different worlds that adorned the doors.

“Rise, Senator,” Arthur said, his voice that of a ruler, and the two man gripped each other’s arms in a greeting before he turned to the other Senators, who all welcomed him with a slightly less pronounced bow. Arthur assented to all of them, his face kind, before Aredian spoke.

“If I may, Your Majesty, I’d like to express my deepest concerns over the attempt on your life that was made at the landing deck, not only in my name, but in that of my colleagues,” he gestured to the rest of the Albion delegation, who nodded. It was a practised speech, for sure, a way to make sure the General Public knew about it, and Arthur’s face remained smooth, but through the Force she could feel his discomfort at his personal losses being used for politics. Not for the first time, Morgana wondered just how close Arthur had been to the fallen knights. “It gladdens our heart to see you safe.”

“Thank you, Senators,” he replied, before gesturing ahead. “Shall we?”

Aredian nodded, moving as to give his sovereign space to lead. Arthur looked around for a second before settling on Essetir’s representative.

“Senator Lot,” he called, and the man looked at him with surprise under his dark fringe. “Walk with me.”

There was no way of denying it, and Morgana allowed herself to be pushed back in the line as Lot came to Arthur’s right side and Aredian stepped behind him with Senator Rodor at his side. Leon and Morgana followed them, while Merlin kept his place at the King’s left.

“I don’t like this,” Leon muttered, looking around the large atrium, filled with statues of the Republic’s heroes, “too many places to hide.”

“Don’t you trust in your – and Merlin’s – abilities to protect Arthur?”

He smiled at her, then, before shaking his head.

“It’s treachery I worry about – and there is nothing less trustworthy than a place filled with politicians, milady.”

“You need not to worry,” she said, electing to ignore the title he insisted on granting her. “Arthur’s safe here.”

“From assassins, perhaps,” he granted, his face grim. “But not from enemies.”

“Would you rather he did nothing at all?”

Leon’s face twisted in something that was both worry and hopelessness.

“Arthur is a great king and an even greater man. I believe in what he’s trying to accomplish – and not trying would be... Utterly unlike him. We all love him for what he is, milady, but doesn’t make us any less concerned – his heart is too big not to be easily hurt.”

Morgana assented with her head, just as they walked past the Inner Chamber and inside the Grand Convocation Chamber. If the outside of the building was overwhelming, the inside always threatened to drown Morgana, with so many feelings and words thrown around by the thousands of beings there.

Arthur stepped easily into the repulsorpod, Merlin still at his side. Aredian, Leon and her followed, while the rest of the delegation remained behind. There might be over a thousand pods to be used, but they didn’t allow for as many people as the whole Albion congregation would have numbered with them coming along, and they would have to watch from the Albion Sector office. Not that it mattered much, since they had all already agreed to it.

They moved through the air swiftly, coming to rest in front of the office that the senators still hadn’t managed to reach. Everywhere around them – above and below, to the left and to the right, pods were coming into place. The centre of the chamber was dominated by the podium used by the Supreme Chancellor, but neither Uther nor is Vice Chair were to be seen, and the Senior Administrative Aide, an old man named Nicholas who had once upon a time been Camelot’s steward and who had never left Uther’s side, seemed to be trying to fix everything as fast as he could before they were all in their places.

Morgana took a seat next to her brother, trying to ignore the hovercams that were not yet turned on. Though it was still early, the Senate never used natural light inside this chamber (or as natural as light ever was in Coruscant), and the soft golden glow of artificial lighting bathed them all. It was a trick, she knew, to allow the Senators not to feel to keenly the time that they spent there; but a somewhat weak one. Eyes could be deceived by it, but there was little that could be more revealing than the urges of one’s stomach or bladder – at least, in the species who possessed those.

She knew Arthur had requested that his speech was done early on the Order of the day, but when it came to the Senate, it might mean hours. Making herself comfortable, she distanced herself from the happenings around her, going into deep meditation, where hours had as little meaning as time had to her gift. Like this, she could ignore the petty squabbling of the Senators and focus on the big picture.

Morgana barely took notice when Uther and Godw’yn came up to their seats in the middle of the room, focusing instead on the currents around them all. Thinking back on her conversation with Mordred, she tried to find, in all those bodies around, something that could lead them away from the path of war – or at least slow it’s coming down enough for them to have better time to prepared – but the sight left her disheartened. She could find, here and there, places that may be pushed into making it come, but none to avoid it altogether, or even slow it down as much as they needed it to be.

Some things, she had learnt in her training, just couldn’t be avoided at all. Points in time that were never altered, and whatever actions were chosen, would always have led there. She had _known_ about it, but never before encountered one. Then again, with the dark side clearly on the rise, it didn’t surprise her that much. Like waves on stormy seas, the darkness could nto be avoided, only endured until it was gone.

The pod finally moving ahead brought her back to the present and to the things that could be ordinarily seen. Arthur stood up, Leon taking his traditional position behind is left side, but for once Merlin kept his seat, as did she. Arthur’s face was grave as he begun to speak.

“Senators – representatives – fellow republicans. A decade ago, I came to this house to plead for help against overwhelming odds – and you all were kind enough to grant it to me. Whatever was the resolution to our troubles, there are not enough words to express the gratitude I felt for your support against our enemies,” Arthur sent a glance to the Trade Federation’s empty pod, before continuing, refusing to acknowledge their clear slight in missing his speech or the fact that even after four trials on the Supreme Courts, Alined remained as it’s Viceroy. “Now, in this moment of tension, when it seems that the peace and security we’ve all fought so hard to maintain are about to be threatened by those we once called friends, I come to you again, not to ask for help, but to offer it.”

Arthur stopped for a second, his eyes scanning the room, though he could not see the rest of the audience. From their position, only Uther, Nicholas and Godw’yn could be seen, and the Twi’lek’s face was kind as usual, his black and white stripped lekku’s moving slightly around his shoulders.  

“Whether or not the Separatists are a military threat and if there should or not be a single, united, army to serve the entire Republic I will let for you all to decide; it is not my place to make predictions or to give counsel to you all; to make decisions in the name of the common good is the vocation and the prerogative of the Senate. I trust that your wisdom and Chancellor Uther’s leadership will guide us through these trying times. Nevertheless, even the slightest hint of war is enough for us to be forced to face the truth that we have been avoiding for long: the Republic is not ready to defend itself. For millennia, the wisdom and power of the Jedi have kept us safe, but the price of maintaining us all safe is that their numbers have dwindled.”

There was no way to miss the whispers and mutterings that this brought, and undoubtedly some considered that what he was saying was akin to treason, to doubt the Jedi’s ability to do what they had vowed to do, but it was nothing if not the truth, and those familiar enough with the Temple knew it – the consulars and sentinels far outweighed the guardians; even among the sentinels, few were those who specialised themselves as Shadows, looking for and fighting the Dark Side. After such a long peace, most Jedi were trained for knowledge and politics, not war. Between the natural decline in population growth in the Core Worlds and Inner Rim and the loose application of the Laws that guaranteed that all children within the Republic should be tested and those found handed over to the guardianship of the Jedi Order, each year, less and less younglings joined their ranks, and the number of those who rose from it to become padawans, let alone knights, grew perilously small. Morgana sighed, as they waited for the murmuring to die out.

“Let it be clear to all, that I have the utmost respect for the Jedi Order and what it stands for, it _is_ , by its very nature, the moral beacon of our civilisation. I am glad to have councillors and friends among them, and specially bless to have one of my own blood in their noble ranks,” he paused long enough to nod to Morgana, who replied in kind. “Still, it isn’t fair to burden them with the sole responsibility for defending ourselves – we believe it is our duty to help them in defending the Republic. Many of you, I know, have your own military and your own alliances of mutual defence in case of war, but if the border skirmishes have proven us one thing, it is that it is not enough to defend our people against outside threats. It was with the Republic’s best interests in mind that my fellow rulers of the Albion Sector and I have created the pact that I now present to you.”

Another pause, this one pregnant with expectation, before he started again, and Morgana could see now, even without focusing into the Force, how the lines of destiny tied themselves around him, binding him to it.

More than once, she had heard Aredian and other’s muttering around Uther and his ability to guide them through the years, to serve them a decade of peace and prosperity was proof of him being the long prophesied “Once and Future King”, who would bring unity among all of them; and the Separatist Crises and Uther’s continuous efforts to diffuse it were to those proof of it, instead of hindering their theory. People believed that, whatever happened, Uther would guide them all through it, if not unharmed, at least united.

Looking at her brother speaking now, it seemed foolish to consider that their father would ever be capable of it. Arthur shone with a golden glow to her natural eyes, a born leader, mixing Uther’s strength with a political grace that was his own. Like Merlin, he seemed to be more than a simple human, more than a simple person, but part of something far bigger than himself, part of the very thread of destiny.

Arthur’s voice returning broke her reverie, but still she could see how he rose to the path that had always meant to be his, and that she had never been fully able to see before.

“The Pact of Ashkanar was made among us, but we didn’t seek to help ourselves or merely defend our homes. As a whole, the people of Albion believe it is our duty to extend our knowledge and our expertise to all those in the Republic who may wish to benefit from it. Together, we have committed ourselves to open our planets to all those – from whatever race, coming from any and all places in the Republic – who wish to learn more of our ways. We will be offering training to those who wish to seek it in many areas – from our miners to our warlords. Not only we hope, with this, to help other planet and areas to boost their own defences, through the learning of our ways to manufacture and use cortosi metal, to the Knight Training that is the foundation upon our community is built. We believe that in standing in a plural society as we do; there is no space for differentiating between the people of Albion and the other peoples of the Republic. So, I stand before you all today, with this offer, freely made, seeking nothing in return, but the certainty that we have made our duty in the enhancement of the Republic, its security, prosperity and equality for all those under its wings.”

Arthur bowed to the Senate, in a gesture that was unexpected from a King, and the audience busted into thunderous applause. Even those who did not believe that it would come to war were applauding – politely if not enthusiastically. Once they were out of view, Arthur sank on the sofa of the pod, and Morgana could see there was sweat in his brow.

“It was brilliant,” Merlin whispered, enthusiastically, and Arthur smiled at him, but as he turned his eyes towards her, his face was serious again, as if waiting for her judgement.

As with Mordred, she wished she could lie to him, but she would have been serving nothing if not some sentimentality that had no place in the life of a Jedi and even less in that of a Seer.

“What do you think?” he asked, fearful.

“You _have_ offered us all a gift beyond measure, but I fear you may have just signed your own death warrant,” she told him, shaking her head to send away the view of him tied by his wrists in some arid plane.

“Be as it may,” he answered, his face firm once again, as if ready to accept his fate. “I did my duty – for Camelot and the Republic.”

And against that, there was nothing she could say.

* * *

 

It was a proof of the hardness of his training that Mordred could barely remember he had been awake for over twenty four hours. As he spoke to the Council, acquainting them to the latest move against King Arthur’s life, he felt as filled with energy as he would have if he had been asleep the whole night. The expressions of the Masters around him were grave, as far as he could tell.

“We believe that the bounty hunter that hired her was the one to kill her,” he offered, finally. “I was able to extract the dart that was used, and it may give us an inkling of who he is.”

“A small but substantial lead,” agreed Master Deaton, with a slight frown. “And right now, the King is at the Senate?”

“He’s giving the speech he came to give, yes;” agreed Mordred, with a small nod. “King Arthur’s being protected by a full score of guards, along with Merlin.”

“Morgana is there too, I’ve heard?” Master Gaius said, raising his eyebrow.

“Yes, master,” Mordred agreed, fighting against the urge to apologise for her. “She felt she was needed there.”

“Not for protection, surely?” Master Jen-Fer asked, her dark braid falling to the front of her shoulder as she moved ahead.

“Morgana is more than capable with a lightsaber, but that was likely _not_ the reason,” interrupted Master Taliesin, his voice patient. “We must trust she _has_ good reason to be there. Morgana’s doings are _not_ what we are here to discuss today.”

The council nodded at this, eyes returning to Mordred.

“It seems that there’s more to this conspiracy than simple a few disgruntled miners,” pondered Master Aufric, and Master Grettir barked out a laugh that was incongruent with his size at it.

“Of course there is,” the Sentinel said, with a grim smile. “King Arthur is beloved of all people in Albion, there was always little possibility that it would be the case. We’ve only sent those reports to the Chancellors office to buy ourselves time.”

“There was evidence...” Master Isel-dir started, but Master Grettir waved his words away with a swipe of his hand.

“Planted evidence, clearly put there to make someone think that it was the case. No, my friends, I fear it goes far beyond _one_ attempt.”

“You can’t possibly agree with the boy’s fancy notions!” argued Master Alator, whose temper was always less carefully controlled than that of his colleagues. “I _really_ don’t believe...”

“I’m not saying it leads to Count Peter,” Master Grettir continued, looking at Master Kilgharrah instead “but – perhaps some _old_ enemy...”

To the best of Mordred’s knowledge, Arthur hadn’t many enemies himself – save, of course, for Viceroy Alined. Albion, on the other hand, had more than enough, between the war that had ravaged the Sector one generation before and the elevation of first Annis and then Uther to the office of Supreme Chancellor. There were many possibilities, and Mordred liked none of them.

“We must investigate this,” agreed the Grand Master, crossing his clawed fingers. “Mordred, the council will leave you responsible for it.”

“The king will still need protection...” he started, unsure of what he was going to say; Arthur had more than enough protection on his own group of knights, still, it felt like leaving things unfinished to take him out of the Jedi protection right after a second attempt had been made. “There are his knights, but...”

“No knights,” ruled Master Deaton, with a small shake of his head. “He must stay hidden – his safety may depend exactly from being away from all the trappings of himself. Inconspicuous, that’s what he must be, if he’s going to avoid the assassins being sent at his way.”

“Your padawan can see to it,” Master Kilgharrah suggested, his eyes gleaming, and the rest of them assented.

“By himself?” Mordred asked, surprised. The council was generally reticent about Merlin, and not once before they had suggested it was time for him to have a mission of his own, although most padawans at his age spent as much time with their masters as they did alone.

“It is time to let him start doing things by himself,” Master Deaton offered, with a kind smile, before turning serious again. “And there aren’t any others that could be assigned to either of your duties. Give him space to grow into his own.”

“I believe he will be glad with it.”

“Happiness and pride have nothing to do with this,” dismissed Kilgharrah, with something that resembled a frown. “It is urgency, instead, that guides the choice. Young Merlin will be fine.”

“Yes, masters,” he agreed, bowing. “I will pass your instructions to him. Should Merlin hide the king in Coruscant...”

“They must leave Coruscant immediately,” Gaius warned, with a twitch of his eyebrow. “Secretly, of course. No official retreat, just send them away in a refugee ship. There are many coming and going through the Corellian Highway, and they should be able to mingle with the general populace.”

“Right after doing a speech on the HoloNet?” questioned Mordred, and Master Kilgharrah smiled.

“ _Specially_ right after it. The last thing anyone will be expecting is for someone with such a standing to be travelling like that. Give the King some roughspun clothing and he will become invisible in plain sight.”

Mordred nodded to it, because it made sense in a strange sort of way. Jedi weren’t uncommon sights in such ships, and with some touches, Arthur might look exactly like one. He doubted, of course, that the King would be happy with the deception, but he would have to endure it for his own sake.

“Anything else, masters?” he asked, and was greeted with multiple headshakes. Bowing low, he started to retreat, when Master Kilgharrah’s voice sounded behind him.

“Mordred,” he said, his voice deceptively low, and Mordred turned around in front of the door to face him. “We are counting on you.”

There was no need to add the inevitable ending – don’t let us down. He could do nothing but hope that he would be able to decipher this mystery alone – but this would have to wait. First, he needed to give the good news to Merlin – and the bad ones to King Arthur.

* * *

 

Arthur was not surprised to find Mordred waiting for them as they returned from the Senate; they hadn’t waited long after his speech to leave the pod, but leaving the building had been another matter altogether. There were many that had wanted to come and talk to him personally – either to congratulate him or to berate him on the offer. He had heard particularly long admonishments from the Senators of Naboo and Alderaan, but those two had believed in pacifism the way a child would believe in heroes. Their eyes would remain closed to the threat of war even when it was already happening. Personally, he like both; politically, their views would never have matched either way.

Mordred’s face was smooth and composed as it had been when they first met the day before, and this more than anything told Arthur that he wasn’t about to like whatever he had come to tell him. Merlin smiled at his master, but Morgana just gave him one of those knowing, sad glances that betrayed bad news.

“Whatever it is, Mordred, you can say,” Arthur told him, too tired to play political games, and he knew that in reality the man in front of him would prefer to go without them too.

“The council agrees that there is more to these attempts than Gedref,” he said, with ease, looking straight at him. “They have instructed me to investigate it further.”

“I _said_ there was no point of Jedi around if it wasn’t to find out the truth behind it,” Arthur reminded him, and Mordred gave him a fond smile for a second before continuing.

“Yes – but the council also has instructed you to leave Coruscant as fast as possible – tonight, at most.”

That made Arthur frown; not that he had plans of staying in the capital for long, in fact he already had a visit scheduled to Dantooine to talk about some prospective people coming to the Albion sector. Still, for some reason, he thought that _this_ wasn’t what the council meant when they said “leave Coruscant.”

“And where, may I ask, are we supposed to go?” he asked to the Jedi, and Mordred glanced towards his padawan before speaking.

“Not _we_ , Your Majesty,” he said, with something between anxiety and pride. “I will conduct the investigation, starting here in Coruscant. _Merlin_ will be accompanying you by himself.”

That made Arthur huff, it wasn’t bad enough that they wanted to keep him under the watch of the Jedi like some misbehaving child, but _now_ they were also leaving him with a padawan.

“I am more the capable of protecting you myself,” Merlin assured, and Arthur snorted at him, shaking his head.

“I don’t doubt your abilities,” he informed, trying to protect his young pride. “It’s the principle of the thing that bothers me – my knights and I...”

“About that,” Mordred continued, and there was not an ounce of doubt about what he was going to say, “The council also recommends that you leave your knights behind, and that you remain hidden until we discover the truth behind this assassination attempts.”

Arthur rolled his eyes at that. Of course. They were going to make him lie again. As much as he detested it, he _did_ understand the principle of the thing.

“So, I am supposed to travel in disguise again,” he said, and he felt so incredibly tired that he couldn’t even be bothered to mask his annoyance. “And I’m guessing, I won’t be able to attend the commitments I made today.”

“Leon can stand in for you,” Morgana said, coming close to him, and he looked at her, trying not the feel betrayed that she was taking _their_ side – but, then again, she was one of _them_. Her face had no anxiety, and that, at least, was a good sign.

“I will do my best, I promise, Your Majesty,” his First Knight said, and the title irked him even more than usual.

“It’s not right,” Arthur shook his head. “I’ve made a commitment to these people...”

“And Leon did not become your First Knight for his battling skill alone, of Lancelot would have the place;” Morgana interrupted, before glancing at Leon with an apologetic expression. “I’m sorry.”

“No, no, you’re right,” the man agreed, and in any other moment Arthur would have found his situation amusing, but right now, it was just one more thing to hint at his inability to do what he was supposed to do.

“He _earned_ his position by allying the characteristics of a Knight to those of a good Politician,” she smiled at the knight, who blushed under the compliment. “So let him _serve_ to the best of his abilities – let him represent Camelot, while we safeguard your life.”

Arthur could only grunt his assent, and Morgana patted his arm for it, making it clear, in a gesture that was so much like the older sister she was, that it made him snort. He looked up, facing Mordred once more.

“So, where are we going?”

“That remains your choice, Your Majesty, save for those places you were known to be going...”

“Camelot, then,” he interrupted, and Mordred’s words died in his mouth, his face frowning.

“Is it wise?” Merlin wondered, trading a look with his master who shrugged.

“There are worse places – but not the Citadel. You must stay away from it, as much as possible. You are meant to be _hiding._ ”

“I have a place in mind,” Arthur told him, with a sigh. “I suppose I must pack, then.”

“Merlin,” Mordred said, his voice a clear command. “I’ll go to the quartermaster and gather some provisions for you – and clothing, for both of you to travel – as well as to arrange your passages. It shouldn’t be hard,” he told Arthur, with an attempt at a smile “there are always many refugee ships running up and down the Corellian Run, so you should be able to depart without delay.”

Arthur nodded, and Mordred bowed, ready to leave. Morgana approached him, gifting him with a butterfly kiss, before a whisper.

“Don’t be an ungrateful brat,” she warned, amusement in her voice, and Arthur felt himself blush, but she was right about it.

As she reached the other Jedi, who was having some muttered conversation with Merlin – who seemed at once elated and irritated by it – about his upcoming mission; Arthur called him again.

“Mordred,” he said, as the two man finished their conversation. “Thank you.”

“We live to serve, Your Majesty,” he said, with a glint in his eyes, before bowing one last time and turning to cross the doorway, Morgana shooting Arthur an laughter filled glance before she, too, disappeared through it.

* * *

 

Normally, Merlin would have been glad to be left to care for the King he had always thought of as a friend, but his stormy mood dampened his enthusiasm a bit. It was almost funny to see how he King walked inside his rooms with heavy footsteps, like a child on the edge of a tantrum. Leon looked at Merlin and rolled his eyes, and it was impossible to hold on his snort.

Still, Mordred had been crystal clear in his orders: not to leave the King’s side for even a minute, however attuned he believed his senses to be. There was no way around it, so Merlin followed Arthur’s steps and got inside the royal bedroom. He hadn’t seen it in the light of day, and was just a bit surprised at it – how red coloured every surface, the Pendragon dragon emblazoned in different places as a form of decoration. Arthur had already opened his trunk, and was throwing things inside it carelessly.

“I don’t think this is a good packing strategy,” he said, frowning at the mess around them.

Arthur turned to him, his face filled with frustration.

“I don’t care,” he said, and his chainmail landed inside with a loud thump. “I don’t like this idea of hiding.”

“Really? I couldn’t say,” quipped Merlin, but the king was not in the mood, so he tried to reassure him instead. “Oh, don’t worry. It won’t take long for Mordred to find the bounty hunter and then you’ll be safe.”

“I don’t care about being safe,” Arthur told him, picking up a pair of boots. “I haven’t worked in this pact for so long to _now_ not be able to put it in motion. That is not why I left my people in another’s care.”

Merlin could say little to console him when it came to it, and it had been clear by his speech how much it meant to Arthur. There was little he could do but to offer him the kind of general platitudes the Jedi always said.

“Sometimes we have to let go of our pride and do what is requested of us.”

“Pride?” Arthur bristled, looking up at him with a frown. “This is _not_ about pride – I believe in your talent as a Jedi, Merlin, but you clearly don’t understand enough about the importance of this – haven’t you heard Morgana...?”

“She said nothing!” Merlin said, trying not to be offended.

“And _that_ was already saying much – this is _not_ about me, Merlin. It may be hard for you to understand, but Kings have to give up as much of their own selves as Jedi – we live to serve, just like you.”

In his experience, it was not the case, and Mordred would have argued fiercely against the idea, but not for a second did he doubt that it was Arthur’s belief about Monarchy, that it was the standard he held other Kings and Queens, other rulers; that it was the one he compared _himself_ to; what he tried to do as much as possible. Whatever failings the others had, his efforts in that direction were not to be mocked, but respected and admired.

“I’m sorry, I was only trying to...”

“I know,” Arthur said, sitting down with a sigh and rubbing his face. “I’m sorry, Merlin, I didn’t mean to snap like this. It is childish and undignified.”

“You are frustrated, I understand it,” Merlin offered, picking up a small stone ball and throwing it between his hands. “You don’t need to apologise.”

“I do,” disagreed Arthur, standing up. “I am supposed to be a better man that that – a model for people – for you – to look up to.”

Merlin snorted, shaking his head.

“I’m not a child to need a model,” he said, with a smile. “Besides, I’m pretty sure that if I am to model after someone, it’s supposed to be _Master Mordred_ not some warrior king inciting people to learn how to fight.”

Arthur laughed at that, nodding.

“Yes, I suppose he _is_ a better model than I am – all around.”

Merlin fought against some of the most pointed comments that came up in his head, shrugging instead.

“He is a great mentor,” he offered, finally, still playing with the ball and avoiding Arthur’s eyes, not sure he wanted to see what was hiding there. “As wise as Master Kilgharrah and as powerful as Master Deaton. I am truly thankful to be his apprentice.”

“If I may be so bold,” Arthur said, and there was a smile in his face when Merlin glanced at him. “I think he is thankful for you, too.”

Merlin nodded, accepting the feelings in it. He knew, deep in his heart, that Mordred liked him beyond what was ordinary between Master and padawan, but it didn’t mean there were no problems between them.

“I know, but still...” Merlin bit his lip, but Arthur’s face was a clear request to go on. “It’s just that... In some ways, I am ahead of him – not that I am _better_ , just that I am ready to do things that are... I’m ready for my trials.” He said, trying to organise the thoughts swirling in his head. “I know I am – and he knows it too. But Mordred says I’m too unpredictable, too emotional... Other Jedi my age had gone and past _their_ trials – Mordred was already training me for almost three years when _he_ was my age – and I _know_ that it was a special case, and that it was different, and I have no wish to prove myself the exact same way he did, but...” he sighed, lost. “I know I started training late, that I didn’t enjoy some of the earlier aspects of Jedi life, but I am ready to move on – but Mordred keeps holding me back, and...”

“It’s frustrating, I understand,” Arthur said, his voice soft.

“It’s _more_ than frustrating, it’s confusing!” Merlin let slip, and blushed because he certainly didn’t want to discuss the finer points of it with _Arthur_ of all people. The king was smiling at him, though, amused at his embarrassment.

“Often, those mentoring us can be those things,” he imparted, with a reminiscent smile. “My father... Well, you know him well enough by now. You can imagine that he pushed me and held me back in turns until I felt like nothing I could do would be enough to reach his standards.”

Merlin could absolutely see it, and he tried hard not to laugh as the image of a teenage Arthur throwing a tantrum in his rooms, things flying to all sides in frustration came to him, as clear as day. Arthur just raised an eyebrow at him, clearly imagining what went on in his head.

“In the end, it helped me figure out the sort of man I wanted to be,” Arthur completed, “and I am grateful for all those things that I then hated.”

“I _am_ grateful. Mordred fought for me, took me in, without even knowing me – going against the will of the council, against his own previously made plans,” and Merlin would never say, because Stiles was adorable, and a talented padawan, but part of him would always wonder if Mordred wouldn’t be happier to be with _him_ than with Merlin, something akin to jealousy or envy trying to come through his training. It didn’t matter, most of the time, but when he started questioning it... “I _am_ grateful, I just... I am a grown man, and I _want_ to go on!”

Arthur was giving him one of those fond smiles he had usually reserved for others, and Merlin blushed again, hating and loving the effect this man had on him. The king just shook his head, standing up and coming close, while Merlin stood, unsure of what to do. He had laughed at Arthur’s childish actions, but he wasn’t doing much better himself.

“Merlin,” the King said, putting his hand on Merlin’s shoulder, and looking into his eyes. “Don’t try to grow up too fast.”

Merlin snorted at this, because it was precious that Arthur would be saying this.

“You were crowned at seventeen!” Merlin reminded him, and Arthur raised his shoulders in something that looked more like an apology than anything.

“And often I wish I hadn’t been – I was too young, too inexperienced, it took me two years and losing the whole planet before I started to _really_ be King and not only the nominal ruler while my father sent orders.”

“When you were _nineteen_ – I’m _twenty two_.”

“Yes, and at twelve, you were a war hero and the only human to ever complete the Boonta Race,” Arthur pointed out, squeezing his shoulders. “You lived a hard life, and your childhood was spent with the responsibilities of an adult – so enjoy, for now, that you have the chance to be _free_ of them. It clearly won’t last, if they’re sending you on missions alone.”

“I suppose you’re right,” Merlin answered, with a sigh, and the king dropped his hands. “I just... I always thought that at this age, I’d be considered a grown up, not an overgrown child.”

Arthur laughed, looking at him from head to toes, before teasing.

“Overgrown and underfed – you are still thin as a stick.”

“I’m not _that_ thin!” Merlin answered, offended. “I’m just – a bit – I’m _wiry_.”

“ _Mordred_ is wiry,” countered the King, returning to throw things at his trunk. “You are more like an underfed puppy.”

Merlin’s eyes grew wide as he stared at the king.

“Not everyone needs to be built like a horse to be strong, you know?”

“Are you comparing me to a horse?” Arthur asked with a huff, and Merlin grinned.

“Well – I’m sure that you neigh in battle.”

“I do not!” Arthur’s mock offence was shown by his grin as he threw some more items inside. “At least I don’t _whine_.”

“You do, too!” Merlin answered, quickly, and the king threw his second pair of boots at him, which Merlin caught easily with the Force and sent back to where they should be going. “And _that_ was very mature.”

“You were the one saying you wanted to be a grown up, I made no such claims,” Arthur pointed out and Merlin laughed.

When he stopped, he noticed that Arthur had stopped what he was doing and was now watching him, smiling openly.

“You know,” he said, with a tiny shake of his head, as if he couldn’t believe what he was about to say. “That whole being babysat by you thing might not be so bad after all.”

If it made Merlin’s heart soar, and his thoughts fly to things he shouldn’t even consider, no one needed to know.

* * *

 

After booking two passages to Camelot for his padawan and the king they were meant to protect, Mordred and Morgana came back to the Temple together. The moment she stepped inside, she had sighed and announced the must go back to the Tower of Knowledge, and Mordred suspected that whatever might have been said at the council, she was about to hear some serious scolding. There were few seers in the temple, and they mostly took care of their own, defending each other fiercely, but disappearing for hours without letting any of them know where she was – and mocking that they were _supposed_ to know things that were left unsaid – was pushing a bit too far the limits of their tolerance.

Mordred made quick work of visiting the quartermaster, making sure to get enough clothing for Arthur to use as well. The idea of the king in the simple clear robes of a consular was amusing, but that was the only thing he could find humour on in the whole situation.

It was not that he was a mother hen, but he worried about Merlin – constantly – and sometimes he felt as if the young man never worried at all. He was far too ready to jump at situations without carefully considering the possibilities – he still focused all too much on the outcome, not minding the path he would have to thread. It was not something that was valued in a Jedi.

He was relieved to find Master Gaius and Master Deaton waiting for him outside the quartermaster’s office. He smiled at the two masters, grateful for their presence.

“Did you with to instruct me further, masters?” he asked, and Gaius shook his head.

“I don’t think it is necessary, you are more than capable of handling it alone – but you seemed troubled in the Council earlier.”

If there was anyone that would understand his reluctance it would be Master Gaius, the man had not allowed Morgana to go out on his own until he was injured himself. The marble coloured stick he carried around was at his right hand.

“And being trouble doesn’t help in seeing the path ahead,” added Master Deaton, and he, too, knew all too well what it was like to have a padawan that was troublesome. Mordred knew better than trying to avoid the conversation, and just sighed, giving in.

“I am just not sure that Merlin’s ready for this,” he said, finally, and the two man smiled at him.

“I don’t think it matters much what we think,” Master Deaton told him, his voice firm. “It’s as hard to see clearly the good and negative sides to our own padawans as it is to spot those things in ourselves. In a way, master and padawan are one, and it is natural that you fear for him – it is for yourself that you fear in the end. You must let go of it – and trust that your teachings have been enough to safely lead him through this mission.”

“That’s the very thing,” Mordred confessed, there was no place for shame among them. “I don’t think I have been that much of a teacher.”

The two masters exchanged a glance, before smiling again.

“I don’t think there have been many Jedi that are as natural at it as you,” Master Gaius said, his face at ease for once, and Mordred was reminded of Merlin’s jab the night before. It seemed like a lifetime away. “It is normal for us to doubt our abilities, specially when our padawans are trying and with a considerable temper – I should know,” the old man snorted, and Mordred smiled, remembering Morgana as a teenager and a young woman, and looking down, not wanting to think much of the sort of misdoings himself had helped her with. “But, Mordred, trust me – there is no point in trying to keep him too close to you for too long. You have seen it, with Morgana – had I allowed her more leeway before, she might never had... Even if it was for the best, in the end, don’t you think it felt like a failure that I had never truly noticed her talents? Things like what happened to her – they can’t be done to those that aren’t already deeply gifted, and that Sith Lord needed a few minutes around her to register what I hadn’t been able to see. In the end, I had grown so used to having her at my side, I had stopped seeing her – teaching her – as I should. Ten years you have been teaching Merlin, it’s time he starts learning his own path.”

“Trust yourself and trust the Force,” Master Deaton told him. “Trust that it will guide Merlin to the path that he’s meant to walk.”

Mordred nodded at them, feeling somewhat more assured that Merlin _was_ indeed ready for it. It wasn’t fair that he would think otherwise when at this age, Mordred had done so much more.

“Thank you masters, you always clear my sight and quieten our hearts;” he looked around with a sigh. “I shall be mindful of my thoughts and work on letting things go – or letting padawans grow, in this case.”

Master Gaius raised his eyebrow at the little quip, but he was grinning too, and Master Deaton seemed to share the same sentiment, and for the first time since he had talked to Morgana the night before, Mordred could feel truly at ease.

* * *

 

Morgana knew it was somewhat foolish to have that many of them around, but under the brown robes, they seemed like a group of Jedi. In these troubled times, it was _not_ such a weird sight, even when boarding a common ship. Only I2-SA wasn’t draped in their fashion. The dark capes brought them some measure of discretion, and most people in Coruscant wouldn’t look twice at them, and only open frontal stares would have revealed their features.

What the situation _did_ ask for was more restraint than what the other passengers were showing as they waved their goodbyes. Morgana smiled at her brother, trying to pass her strength through it, to reassure him that it would all be well. He recognised the attempt with a smile of his own.

Curiously, Leon was the one less at ease with his disguise. He kept on shooting Arthur worried looks, but it was in his nature to fret, and Morgana elbowed him lightly to make him stop.

“Don’t move so much, Jedi are meant to be restful,” she said through the corner of her mouth, one single second before Merlin missed the step and tumbled around a few more. The knight raised an eyebrow at her, amused and she shrugged.

“At least, no one demanded _grace_ of him,” Arthur commented, trying not to laugh. Mordred had rushed ahead, and was holding Merlin by the elbow, the beginnings of a rant forming in his lips, before Morgana’s pointed look silenced him.

“Padawans,” he muttered under his breath, as they reached them.

“They are just so hard to raise,” Leon agreed, looking at Arthur, who seemed offended.

Morgana snorted at it, amazed at these men ability to offend each other as a mark of love. She would never understand it. They came to a halt close to the ship that Arthur and Merlin were supposed to board.

“Be safe, sire;” Leon requested, in a lieu of goodbye. Arthur rose his eyebrow at him before replying.

“I will, _master”_ he answered, pointedly. “Take good care of Master Morgana”

“I’m _not_ his charge,” she objected, but her brother just continued his speech.

 _“_ And _, please_ , try not to die on my absence.”

“I’ll to my best.”

“He’ll be safe with me,” Elyan added from Arthur’s other side, and the king started to make a gesture to pat his back and stopped midway, remembering himself and nodding instead.

As Arthur turned back to Leon, he noticed the man’s frown had grown bigger. Morgana merely resisted the urge to elbow him again, she could only hope no one would notice anything amiss – or that worrying was now so common that even a Jedi could do it without anybody finding it weird.

“You will be fine on your own,” assured the king, and Leon shook his head.

“I have no worries for my own life, it is _yours_ I’m concerned with. What if they find you?”

“There is not a man at home that wouldn’t give his life for him,” Elyan pointed out, while Arthur just smiled, trying to sound confident for their benefit.

“Then, my padawan will have to show what he’s capable of.” Merlin, who was observing the exchange quietly, grinned at this. “He _does_ claim to be a grown up after all.”

This wiped the smile out of Merlin’s face, replacing it with an offended pout that made him look even more adorable. Mordred chose this moment to pull him closer, undoubtedly fretting as much as Leon, they were both mother hens.

“You just _stay there_ and don’t move,” he was saying when she reached them. “Don’t do anything. Don’t attract any attention. If he decides to try to do anything stupid, heroic or that may in anyway make it clear where he is, just knock him out.”

Merlin’s eyes were as wide as saucers at this, but he nodded along.

“Yes, master.”

“I mean it, Merlin,” Mordred said, his voice filled with warning. “Don’t do anything without consulting me or the council.”

“Don’t eat, don’t drink, don’t even breathe!” Morgana teased, and Mordred shot her a warning glance that was completely lost on her. “Just stay there – oh goodness, you’re as bad as Gaius.”

“I’m serious,” Mordred insisted, and Merlin nodded. “Time to go, now.”

The three Jedi came closer to the knights, and Arthur acknowledge them with a nod that was almost too regal.

“I’ll get to the bottom of this as quickly as I can,” Mordred told him, and Arthur smiled softly at him.

“I’ll be very grateful for your speed, Mordred.”

Morgana could have rolled her eyes at them both as they stared into each other before Leon spoke.

“You two have to board. They’re not going to wait.”

Arthur nodded, and offered them all a sunny smile, before picking up one piece of luggage, the other already in Merlin’s hands.

“May the Force be with you,” Morgana told them, and there was humour in Arthur’s face when he replied.

“May the Force be with you, Masters.”

She shook her head slightly, amused at him, just as Leon rolled his eyes and Elyan bit his lip to avoid snorting. By her side, she heard as Merlin and Mordred exchanged the very same words, and some meaningful looks along it.

The two men turned around, Arthur’s cape so light that was almost white and Merlin’s of a dark brown shade that would make him near invisible at night. Side by side, they complimented each other like night and day; and Morgana felt a stir inside her that said _this_ was important. Mordred was still by her side, but she could almost see him, his undeniable energy wrapped around them both, equally.

Arthur said something, to which Merlin replied in kind, looking at each other, and even from afar, she could tell they were bantering. After a few more words, the two of them looked back to where I2-SA was trotting behind them and laughed, the sound clear even from this distance.

To her eyes, they were now almost one, opposites completing, moulding themselves one to another. She had but one second to wonder how much of their bond the others could see, before Mordred’s voice cut through her vision, heavy with worry.

“I hope he doesn’t do anything foolish,” he said, and there was no question about _which one_ he was talking about.

“Honestly, I’m more concerned with _Arthur_ doing anything something foolish than him,” Leon countered, and the two men shared a look that talked about many hours spent trying to add some sense of caution to their thick heads.

Then, not for the first time since she heard about it, Morgana wondered if it was such a good idea to leave the two of them alone without anyone to balance their natural instincts to put themselves in the path of danger – and the look that Leon and Mordred gave her told her that they couldn’t stop thinking about the same thing.

 

 

 

 


	5. Chapter 5

 

After dispatching Merlin and Arthur, there was nothing else for Mordred to do but to start working on finding out where the Bounty Hunter that had hired Sophia came from. It was easier to concentrate here, inside the Jedi Temple, under the soft light that streamed from the high windows, the white walls spreading it through. There was peace here that couldn’t be found anywhere else, even in the midst of a turmoil.

He headed to the analysis room, the dart safe in his pocket. There were many other Jedi, each in one different cubicle, working on various assignments. He walked past them, searching for a free place where he could sit. Opening the glass doors, he slipped into the last cubicle on the right. On the other side of the wall, the lights were off, and the droids were on standby.

Mordred needed only to touch the screen to make it come to life, artificial light flooding the droid area, and they woke up. He may have spent too much time with Merlin, because he could swear the droid was glad to have something to do as it approached him.

The PK-4 pressed a button, and a tray slid out.

“Please put the subject of the analysis inside the tray,” it said, and Mordred did as requested.

Other Jedi may have waited silently, but he felt the urge to explain what exactly he wanted – some may believe droids to have just the most cursory of smarts, but his padawan habits had shown them that there was far more to them than most people would think.

“It’s a toxic dart, and I need to know where it came from and who made it,” he informed, and the droid assented.

“We will get back to you in no time,” the droid assured.

There was nothing to do but wait, and Mordred was used to it, but didn’t make it any easier. Often, he was the one hold Merlin back – or, lately, Arthur – when they were about to rush into some poorly thought out action; which may have given them the false impression that he didn’t mind it at all. He may not be adventurous, but he was still a man used to action. Mordred had all the patience in the world when it came to wait for the moment to act, when it came to wait for information to arrive, he wasn’t all that patient.

What he could to was to watch as diagrams and letters speeded up through the screen in a speed that no one would be fully able to register. Probably, even seeing it wouldn’t have helped; the technobabble meant less than nothing to him. Merlin, on the other hand, was fluent in it since he was young, and probably would have guessed a lot from the little that had flashed.

Merlin had other priorities now than to work as his translator. Thinking back on his conversation with Master Deaton and Master Gaius, Mordred forced his mind away from his padawan and back to the matter at hand – even if the matter at hand was waiting.

The droid was back less than a quarter of an hour later.

“I’m sorry,” it started, and Mordred was now sure he could hear emotion underneath its metallic voice. “There are no records of such a weapon existing in any known culture. The markings cannot be identified. It was most likely self-made by a warrior not associated with any known society.”

Mordred merely blinked at this – the records of the Jedi Temple were very through. 80% of the galaxy, the majority of the systems, stars and populations were data that should be easily recovered by the droids. Yet again, it seemed liked someone had been trying to erase all evidence of the attempts on the king’s life.

“Can you try again?” he asked, but he knew it was futile.

“Master Jedi, I can run it through the system as many times as you request, but the findings won’t be any different. We cannot tell you where it came from – and I doubt anybody, save the maker, can.”

Of course, if it had been _that easy_ to find out the person responsible for it, Mordred wouldn’t even be having this conversation; he refrained from commenting, though, because as sharp as the droid seemed to be, it was unlikely that it would have understood sarcasm all that well.

“Thank you for your assistance,” he said, instead, picking the dart back up from the tray that was ejected to his side and standing up.

“You are welcome, Master Jedi,” the droid answered, without a hint of humour. “We live to serve.”

Mordred walked out of the cubicle, that immediately went dark again. He kept scouring his mind for someone – anyone – that might help him in finding out new sources of information. He may had a reasonable respect for the analysis droids, but there was a huge difference between accessing a database and picking up information and _knowing_ about it. Without any other hits, he walked away from the analysis lab.

Out in the hallway, he took a deep breath, concentrating, focusing on the one person he had always been able to go to with his problems. It wasn’t hard to find Morgana’s Force signature, familiar as it was, and the smell of her hair filled his nostrils even before he started walking to her quarters.

It wasn’t close by to where he was, but as he kept wondering about the possible meanings behind the unidentified device, he barely noticed the space. He knocked on the door once, just as a matter of form, before he entered. Morgana was wearing her usual sand-coloured robes again, and had been bending over some markings on a pot. She smiled when she saw him.

“Am I interrupting something urgent?” he asked, and she denied it with her head.

“No, this can wait. I had a inkling you might show up.”

“Why am I not surprised?” he joked, before he sat down on her cot.

Morgana merely observed him, her eyes calm and knowing and he wondered what was the point of ever bothering to tell her anything when she seemed to know it all before-hand and even better than himself.

“I’m guessing it’s not Merlin troubling you now,” she said when the silence had gone on for long enough.

“No, but close enough – the analysis droids couldn’t find any registers of the dart that was used to kill the assassin that was targeting Arthur,” he told her, sighing. “I suppose – with my luck – that you won’t be able to say much about it either, will you?”

Morgana snorted, shaking her head.

“Give it to me,” she said, extending her hand. Mordred placed the dart on it carefully, surprised that she would be able to do anything.

“Can you... _Feel_ things like this?”

“It’s not a gift, it’s a technique,” Morgana answered, as she looked at it up close.

“Handy,” Mordred nodded, approving. “I wish I had learnt it.”

“At less troubling times, I may teach you,” she said, before closing her hand around the object. Mordred didn’t move, not wanting to disturb her concentration.

Morgana frowned, closed her eyes for a moment, as if she was trying harder, and opened them again. She opened up her hand, looking again at the object in her palm, her head still wrinkled, and shook her head.

“Nothing,” she said,  clearly surprised by it. “Not a single hint – it’s all _fog_ ,” Morgana raised her head, looking straight at him now. “I don’t like this.”

“Maybe he never touched it,” Mordred answered, shrugging, and she shook her head.

“It’s not about physical touch, it’s about intention – but it’s clouded, deeply clouded. Like darkness clang around it,” she sighed, her expression sad as she looked at Mordred. “You’ve gone and stepped in a viper’s nest again.”

“It comes with the job,” he answered, trying for a smile and failing. “I don’t even – I don’t know where to start looking for it. I haven’t been _trained_ for investigation, all I’ve ever done is going through steps. I don’t even know who to _ask_. I didn’t come here hoping that you’d be able to tell me anything, I just... Needed to find some way to get to the bottom of this.”

Morgana nodded for a second, before a smile came to her face.

“Well, I might not be able to help – but I may know someone who can.”

“Not one of the masters?” Mordred asked, thinking back on Master Kilgharrah’s parting words, and Morgana shook her head.

“Not one of them,” she agreed, “Just a knight – you may be familiar with her.”

She didn’t give him any more time to think about it, before she rose from her seat and walked to the door. Mordred followed, as she got down to the long corridor at a brisk pace, clearly sure of where she was going. The two of them walked together in silence up to the place where the temple padawans – and some of the consulars, too – generally gathered for extra lightsaber practice. Mordred knew that Morgana came around often, wanting to keep her skills sharp in spite of the calling that led her away from fighting.

It was always bittersweet to see the place he had spent so long on; both as a padawan and in his first three years as a master. Mordred hadn’t accepted any missions, hoping that being in the Temple would help Merlin settle into his new life as a Jedi. He wondered how much good it had done him – he may have had a control most untrained sensitives lacked, but even a youngling with half his age but born in the temple was ahead of him in some finer techniques. There had also been the boy he had wanted to train, and the hurt look in his face whenever he spotted Merlin. It was not something he could control, and Stiles would have to come through it alone if he ever wanted to be a Jedi, but it didn’t do Merlin any favours either. From sweet and talkative, he had grown shy and moody, filled with some teenage rebellion that rivalled Morgana’s. Going away from Coruscant had mostly helped him with it, on the field, Merlin was back to his best behaviour, if a _tad_ too heroic for Mordred’s tastes.

There were over a dozen padawans gathered now, fighting each other – some knights and masters, too, were there. He spotted Stiles training with a Jedi he was almost sure was called Eri-Ka, and the boy was quick on his feet as ever. Morgana followed his eyes to it, and put her hand in his shoulder.

“He is doing well,” she assured him, with a sad smile. “There are few honours greater than being Master Deaton’s padawan.”

“I know,” he agreed, shaking his head. “I could never compare to it – but I don’t think I’ll ever stop feeling as if...”

“You made him no promises,” Morgana reminded him, “but you _did_ make one to Nimueh, and you’re keeping it.”

“It’s more than the promise,” Mordred said, trying to make it clear that he didn’t truly regret having Merlin as a padawan, whatever he might say. “It’s... I _know_ I promised Nimueh, but it is more than that.”

“And _anyone with eyes_ can see it,” she agreed. “There’s a strong bond between you two, one hardly ever seen between a master and a padawan. There is no point in feeling bad for it.”

Which was easy to say, harder to believe. It was in Mordred’s nature to ask a lot of himself, to expect his word to be worth more than anything, and even if he _hadn’t_ given it, it had been _implied_ in the relationship they shared. He had hoped, once, that he might be able to conciliate both, that Merlin would be ready for his trials by the time Stiles was ready to become a padawan, but he had clearly underestimated the difficulties ahead of him. Merlin was a brilliant student, and taught Mordred so much, every single day, but it was not _easy_ and he still needed some more maturity before he would be able to go be on his own – while Stiles, in his turn, had grown too mature too soon. It was best like that, he would get some of the best training available, but it felt cruel to the child he had taken in his own arms from a war-ravaged planet to just leave him to the care of others.

Morgana was done with waiting for him to mope, too, and kept on walking until she stopped behind a Twi’Lek knight. Mordred could not see the face, so he didn’t know who Morgana was talking to, but it didn’t take long before both turned towards him, gesturing for him to approach.

The knight Morgana was talking to was clearly a female, her features graceful, delicate even to Twi’Lek’s standards of beauty. She had almond eyes and a heart-shaped mouth that were adorned by her long azure lekku’s. It took Mordred a moment to recognise her after all these years.

“Mordred, you remember Alis-Sen,” Morgana was saying and her expression made it clear that if he _didn’t_ he should fake it.

“Of course,” he answered, smooth, it all coming back to him. “You were in Camelot in the end of the Blockade.”

“Yes,” she answered, with a tiny smile. Mordred didn’t have the impression she liked him much. “I’m surprised you remembered – with all the burdens you got on the occasion.”

Mordred merely nodded, agreeing to it. Morgana’s eyebrow twitched in a way that was reminiscent of Master Gaius, before she continued to speak.

“Mordred here is needing some help with an investigation,” she said, cutting straight to the point. “I was hoping that, with your knowledge, you may be able to send him in the right direction to find clues.”

“I’ll be thankful for any assistance you can grant me,” Mordred agreed, and Alis-Sen laughed a bit.

“A Guardian asking for help? Wonders never cease these days,” she shook her head, her face still open. “What is it that you need?”

“It’s a dart – the droids couldn’t identify where it came from – and I _need_ to find the owner of it with some urgency.”

“Pendragon’s business, I suppose,” Alis-Sen said with a smirk. “Don’t worry, Master Guardian, I know just the person to help you.”

* * *

 

_Darkness – darkness and pain. Sweat and tears pouring down her face, her lips dry and cracked, moving into a endless prayer that was never granted, his name slipping out again and again._

_Merlin tried to reach her, tried to call for his mother, but he couldn’t – he was not really there, he hadn’t been there in a decade, he was..._

Merlin woke up with a start, to find Arthur looking at him with a concerned expression.

“You were having a nightmare,” the king informed him, and Merlin sat up, his forehead wrinkled. “Do Jedi even have dreams? I mean – normal dreams?”

Merlin sighed, shaking his head.

“Everybody dreams,” he informed Arthur before I2-SA approached with two bowls of soup. “Just as everybody needs to be fed.”

“I thought...” Arthur’s words faded to nothingness as he picked up the bowl from the droid. “Nevermind.”

“What?” Merlin enquired, drinking up some of the soup.

Arthur remained quiet for a few seconds, doing the same, before stopping, looking at nothing before speaking, not daring to look at Merlin.

“I thought you just had – you know – the sort of dreams that are warnings and visions.”

Merlin snorted at this, shaking his head.

“Not unless you’re Morgana – and I’m not,” he tried to take the images away from his head, not even wanting to contemplate the possibility of them being real. “They’re probably just... Dreams.”

“It sounded awful,” Arthur prodded, drinking more.

“It was,” he agreed, looking at his soup, his hunger gone. “It was about my mother,” he confessed finally, and Arthur’s face softened.

“I’m sure she’s fine,” he reassured Merlin, and the padawan didn’t want to point out that the sort of life the led was _not_ one that helped much with being fine, because Arthur just would never understand, born as he was for privilege and wealth. Instead, he merely nodded.

They remained in silence as they finished up their food, until I2-SA beeped and whirled something. Merlin couldn’t understand it, but it seemed to be a warning.

“We’ve just entered the Corellian Run, I think,” Arthur informed him, looking at the droid, his head leaning sideways. “I told I2 to warn us when it happened. Shouldn’t be too long now.”

“I’ll be glad to see Camelot again,” Merlin answered, glad to have something else to occupy his troubled mind. “It was the most beautiful place I’ve ever been too – nowhere else quite compares to it.

Arthur snorted at this, but there was a smile in his face and a hint of pride.

“I fear you may be underwhelmed now – you were very young back then. Our perceptions change with time.”

“Did yours?” Merlin asked, looking at the king from under his eyelashes, and Arthur looked back at him, right into his eyes.

“Possibly. I used to think that Coruscant was a glittering, beautiful place – now I just think it looks overcrowded and grim.”

“I like the open, green spaces of Camelot better,” Merlin said, without moving his eyes away, hoping that they’d convey what his words could not. “They have their own light, I think.”

Arthur nodded, and for the first time his eyes left Merlin’s, lowering a bit instead.

“Camelot can be charming,” agreed the king, before licking his lips.

“I’ve thought about it every day since I left,” Merlin said, although he wasn’t thinking about Camelot as he spoke.

“You seemed to have... adapted well.”

Merlin grinned, before shaking his head.

“It was the first place that took me in, it holds a special spot in my heart.” Arthur nodded, but said nothing, and Merlin couldn’t help but continue. “I’ve wanted to come back for a long time.”

It made Arthur blink, shaking his head, before a thoughtful expression took hold of his face. Merlin was a bit jarred by the sudden change, when he grew serious and composed, different from the warm, playful man he usually was in Merlin’s sight.

“It’s a difficult thing,” he said, looking away now, speaking more to himself than to Merlin; “To have your life sworn to a cause. Never being able to go where you want to go, do what you want to do... Or be with the people that you love.”

The words were simple in themselves, but they opened up a well inside Merlin’s heart that he had been trying to keep closed for years — and suddenly it threatened to overwhelm him: the desire, the longing, the _need_ that went so much deeper and that were so much truer than the simple sensual impulses that was all he had allowed himself to feel. It was all sweet, but also bitter, for it would never — could never — really be.

“Am I even allowed to love? I thought in a Jedi... It was forbidden” Merlin answered, not without a hint of bitterness, and Arthur’s eyebrows rose. “What?”

“It’s... I just didn’t expect that kind of view in... Well” he looked away again, his face carefully blank. “Mordred’s padawan.”

“He is no Nimueh,” was Merlin’s humourless reply. Of all the subjects they might have started, _this_ was the one that had to crop up. “Whatever... He did or didn’t do before, he hasn’t... Not since her death.”

Arthur snorted at this and shook his head, clearly disbelieving.

“I highly doubt that if he _did_ he would be discussing it with you,” the king pointed out, humour filling his tone.

“There are no secrets between us!” Merlin watched Arthur’s amused expression, and then lowered his voice, a bit desolated. “No, you’re probably right – I don’t think he _would_ discuss it with me.”

Arthur just nodded at it, as if he was particularly pleased to be right, and Merlin just couldn’t let it like that.

“But I’m sure he hasn’t,” he insisted, with a nod to confirm his words.

“How could you _possibly_ be so sure?” Arthur teased, with a grin.

“I’ve been living with him day in and day out for _ten years_. Not _once_ I have...”

“He may be just really discreet?” suggested the King and Merlin laughed.

“Mordred can’t avoid _blushing_ whenever the subject comes up in any situation. Do you _really_ think he could hide it?”

Arthur shrugged, blushing himself at the comment, and Merlin could only wonder about it.

“It’s different – doing and talking – he may just be... Uncomfortable in speaking about it.”

Merlin snorted at this.

“ _Uncomfortable_ doesn’t begin to cover it.”

Arthur’s face was now a mix between entertained and confused.

“Did you try talking to him about it a lot of times?”

“Oh, plenty!” Merlin told him, waving his hand. “I may be a Jedi, but that doesn’t make me any less of a man.”

“I didn’t imply it did,” was Arthur’s answer, and Merlin just shook his head.

“What I mean is... I was _twelve_ when I came around, I had plenty of time to learn about it before meeting Mordred, but it is still... A confusing age, and he was the closest person to me.”

Arthur laughed out loud, as if picturing the two of them trying to discuss the facts of life and changes of human bodies was too much for him to handle. Some of the refugees around shot them annoyed looks, and Arthur tried to reign in his face into a more serious expression and failed.

“It must have been _hilarious_ ,” he said, grinning.

“Mortifying and humiliating, more often than not, but I’m glad you can find humour in it. He would much rather have preferred to pretend none of it existed – but, you know, ten years. You find out _a lot_ about a person in that time, and Mordred isn’t...” Merlin looked up, his lower lip coming making a half pout, in an expression of consideration. “As indifferent to these urges as he wants me to think he is – it _is_ the Jedi way, but it _isn’t_ effortlessly to him.”

“All the more reason for him to just be discreet instead of abstaining as you claim,” Merlin started to talk, but Arthur interrupted him, raising his hand in a pacifying gesture. “I know, I know, ten years and whatnot – still. It’s not as if you had been with him _every single day_.”

“We haven’t been parted for as long as _now_ since the battle in Camelot,” Merlin informed him, and Arthur blinked, surprised.

“Surely... Not even Gaius...”

“Mordred is a mother hen.”

“There must have been... Whole hours apart – you didn’t share his accommodations in the Temple, did you?”

“No,” Merlin agreed. “But unless he _was_ seeing someone _inside_ it, there was no time for it – and Mordred never seemed close to other Jedi,” Merlin’s eyes crinkled, as he tried to control his laughing long enough to finish the sentence “– unless you’re suggesting he was doing _it_ with Master Gaius or Master Deaton or...” Arthur had been laughing at the suggestions, and Merlin couldn’t find it in him to finish, because there was only one possible conclusion to that sentence.

The king’s body stopped shaking with laughter, but he smiled, as if giving Merlin allowance to speak.

“You can finish it.”

“Or Morgana...” Merlin completed, redder than he had considered possible. “But I’m sure – I mean, I don’t think – I don’t... He surely didn’t...”

Arthur just shook his head, his face fond again.

“Relax, Merlin,” he ordered, his hand on Merlin’s arm. “I _know_. And – yeah, doesn’t sound likely. I think...” and it was Arthur’s voice that seemed to grow somewhat weaker, as if he couldn’t bring himself to say it. “It doesn’t sound like him – like them.”

Merlin leaned his head sideways, agreeing with it, curiosity growing on him like never before. While on battle he had never faltered in doing things, _asking_ things seemed to be much harder to him. Before he could gather the courage to speak, Arthur had cleared his throat, and moved on.

“So Mordred says that Jedi mustn’t love,” he repeated, coming back to their original discussion, and Merlin shrugged.

“Not exactly – it’s more complicated than that.”

“I have nowhere else to be and no one else to talk to,” he pointed out, and the padawan nodded.

“What we are taught is that compassion is the core feeling for a Jedi, and what is compassion if not unconditional love?” he asked, wishing it was that simple. “Isn’t it compassion that leads to help and to guard?”

“It is,” Arthur answered, looking at him.

“And isn’t it a form of loving?”

“It is,” the king nodded to him.

“So we _are_ encouraged to love,” Merlin completed, trying to sound logical. “It is _attachment_ and _possession_ that we should avoid. Even...” he looked back to the king, the thoughts in his head swirling. “Even though... Some things... are hard to forget.” Merlin added, his mind back to his mother, and Arthur looked at him, raising an eyebrow.

“I seem to remember someone – Gaius or Nimueh, I can’t recall now – warning that you, Jedi, should live in the present, not in the past or the future, because there is no point in being concerned with what was or what would be.”

Merlin shrugged, his mood gloomy again.

“Maybe I’m not a very good Jedi, then.” He said, his voice low and sad. “There are many things which I still love – and having to... Not knowing...” he shook his head, muttering to himself. “Dreams pass in time.”

Sensing his mood, Arthur said nothing more, but the silence was respectful and not uncomfortable, and Merlin was grateful that Arthur, at least, seemed to understand how torn he was.

* * *

 

Mordred followed Alis-Sen down the street, and the young Sentinel seemed pretty sure of where she was going. It was a rough part of Coruscant, but she was clearly familiar with it. Here, old buildings spread through streets, mixed up with warehouses that one couldn’t say if were in use or abandoned. Most of the speeders and transporter rigs around were beat up and used. On the sky, though, freighters could be seen often, some clearly ageing fast, others still shining as they hissed through the sky.

He noticed the place one second before Alis-Sen started heading towards it; the steamed up windows and rough lettering making it clear that it catered to a clientele that couldn’t be more different than the one he was investigating for. It seemed, though, like the sort of place a smuggler or an impoverished bounty hunter might come to. The lights in the lettering were lit up even during day, presenting its name to the world both in Basic and in some other language Mordred couldn’t immediately recognise.

Alis-Sen pushed the door open firmly, walking inside, and Mordred darted in behind her. There was a droid, whose job was likely waiting on the costumers, cleaning the tabletop of one of the booths, and its head turned sharply towards them.

“Can I help ya?” it asked, and the voice was markedly female, and brisker than Mordred would have normally expected in a waitress, but this was not the sort of place that would welcome the coming of any sort of person who worked in any relation to law-enforcement.

“I’m looking for Dexter,” Alis-Sen replied, and somehow, the droid’s eyes seemed to narrow down at it.

“What do you want him for?” the tone was clearly challenging, but Alis-Sen merely offered a disarming smile.

“Don’t worry, he’s _not_ in trouble – it’s just... personal.”

If the droid had eyebrows, they would have been raised at this. It – _she_ – stared at Alis-Sen and then at him for a moment, as if considering the truth of her words, and Mordred did his best to look disarming. Morgana called it his lost puppy face. Coming to a conclusion, it rolled towards the counter, opening up the serving hatch.

“Someone to see ya, honey,” she called it, and it was Mordred’s turn to raise his eyebrow, looking at Alis-Sen, who returned his look for a second before snorting, looking down, her cheeks becoming bluer. “Jedi, by the looks of them,” the droid added, trying and failing to be discreet and her tone clearly conveyed that their rank was a reason not to trust them.

From the midst of the steam billowing out from the kitchen, a head poked through, big, bald, and brownish, with prominent crests on his skull. A Besalisk, Mordred concluded, and it looked at him for a second before spotting his companion.

“Alis-Sen!” he called, and the Twi’Lek looked up, smiling.

“Hey Dex!” her voice was perky, and the was the very picture of a harmless pretty girl. It made the Besalisk grin.

“Take a seat – I’ll be with ya in a moment!”

Mordred moved first, taking the seat closer to the window in the booth the droid had been cleaning, and Alis-Sen sat next to him. The waitress turned towards them, her behaviour much better now that it was clear that they didn’t represent any sort of danger to her... to Dex.

“You two want a cup of ardees?”

“Yes, thank you,” the sentinel replied for both, and Mordred didn’t normally engage in alcohol in the midst of business, but it seemed like rude to point it out. He could deal with a glass or two of Jawa Juice in his system.

Alis-Sen’s eyes were on the kitchen door, and Mordred took the opportunity to look around as discreetly as he could. There were a number of costumers eating, most of them though-looking. If he had to judge, he would have pointed out a number of being who engaged in various sorts of manual labours, a few freighter drivers, but not one of them looked like they could be the person Mordred had been looking for.

He turned as he heard the door opening again, and Dexter came out of it – huge, as most Besalisks were, with four arms, all open as he came in Alis-Sen’s direction. The Twi’Lek rose from her seat, and outside of the kitchen smoke, Mordred could see the markings of age in his face, and others that showed he wasn’t a person to be trifled with.

The two embraced, Dexter’s upper set of arms coming around Alis-Sen’s slight body, the difference in their size becoming even more pronounced in the action. The cooker let go of the Jedi, and she sat back next to Mordred, while Dexter eased himself in the seat opposite to theirs, eyeing Mordred curiously. The waitress poured down three glasses in front of them, the sharp bitter smell hitting their nostrils.

“Who is your new playmate?” Dex asked to Alis-Sen, and she shook her head, as if she had suffered long enough with his manners.

“This is Mordred,” she explained, and Mordred offered his hand to the Besalisk, who looked at Alis-Sen before doing anything. “He’s _fine_ , Dex. He’s friends with Morgana. You can trust him.”

That made the cooker beam, and he took Mordred’s hand and shook it with gusto.

“Well, we do what we can to help your friends,” he said, before looking between them and asking. “So, what can I do for ya?”

“You can tell us where this is from,” she answered, and Mordred rushed to place the dart on the table between them. He watched as Dex’s eyes widened, and his mug was back in the table, under the Twi’Lek’s intense stare.

“Well... That is... _surprising_ ,” he said, picking it up delicately between his puffy fingers and peering at it carefully. “I ain’t seen one of these since I was prospecting on Subterrel, beyond the Outer Rim!”

“So you _know_ where it came from...” Mordred enquired, and the Besalisk grinned at him.

“This baby belongs to the cloners,” he declared, handing it back to Mordred. “It is a Kamino Kyberdart.”

“Kamino Kyberdart...” he repeated, looking at the object in his hand, and speaking more to Alis-Sen than to Dex as he continued. “I wonder why it didn’t show up in the analysis.”

“It’s the funny little cuts on the side that give it away,” the cooker explained, gesturing to show them to Mordred. “Those analysis droids you’ve got on the Temple, they only focus on the obvious – shape, symbols, you know the drill. I should think,” he continued, with a hint of dark humour, looking between the two of them, “That Jedi such as yourselves would have more respect for the difference between knowledge and wisdom.”

Alis-Sen let out a small laugh at it, shaking her head, and looking at Mordred with her eyes sparkling.

“What did we learn today, Mordred?”

“That it came from Kamino?” he asked, pretending to be puzzled for the sake of her words – he deserved whatever teasing she was about to come up with.

“ _No_ ”, Alis-Sen said, grinning, “You _learnt_ that you should have more respect for the wisdom of old, greasy cookers than to the knowledge gathered by millennia and processed by droids in the biggest archives in the galaxy.”

Dex laughed out loud at this, and the Twi’Lek grinned, and Mordred was suddenly comfortable at seeing this new, teasing side of the sentinel.

“Well, if droids could really think, we wouldn’t be here, would we?” he mocked back and she laughed before nodding. Mordred turned back to their informer, frowning slightly. “But Kamino... I’m not familiar with it. Is it part of the Republic?”

“Not _everything_ interesting is in the Republic,” Dex said, waving one of his four hands while another one raised his cup to his mouth for a gulp. “It’s beyond the Outer Rim – some twelve parsecs outside the Rishi Maze, going south. It shouldn’t be too hard to find, even for those droids of yours.”

“Before, you said _cloners_...” Alis-Sen reminded them, and Dexter nodded.

“Yeah – damned good ones too,” he added, while Mordred pocket the dart.

“Are they friendly?” he asked, wondering how much difficulty he would have in his mission, how many of those could be found, if they _could_ direct him towards the right person. It could be very difficult to gather information, as Mordred knew first hand.

“It depends,” the Besalisk’s grin was wicked, and Alis-Sen smirked at him.

“Depends on what, Dex?” she asked.

“Oh, how good your manners are...” he said, with a particular tone. “And, of course, how big your pocketbook is...”

He didn’t need to meet Alis-Sen’s eyes to know what she was thinking: the whole thing spelt trouble.

 

* * *

 

 

The smell of sea hit his nostrils, and he felt something inside that had been aching for months to finally come to rest. He was home — at least, as much as he could. He turned around to see Merlin watching the place, mesmerised.

 

Fyrien, Camelot’s biggest port, stood in a peninsula. The city wasn’t as big as the Citadel of Camelot, but still it bustled with life as many people walked in and out of it. The spaceport stood outside of its real perimeter, in a large plateau in front of the castle that named the city, all made of glass and open spaces, atriums with fountains and vegetation. On the opposite side of the small bridge of land connecting the port and the lowest part of the city, Arthur could see a huge stone castle, with small windows and high, defensive walls. It was a powerful contrast, old and new, meshing together into something that was absolutely Camelot.

 

 

“I don’t think I can ever be underwhelmed by this,” he said, and Arthur smiled before nudging him.

 

“Come on — I believe the lifts are this way.”

 

He wasn’t going to confess to Merlin that he had barely been to the place before, it was his damn planet. Of course, the padawan was aware that there was a special Royal Port under the Citadel, alongside one military port, but Arthur doubted he had ever really considered the implications of it. Following the general movement of the crowds of refugees and locals, they climbed into the platforms that cut through solid rock to take them to the sea level. From there, most of them would probably take some sort of transportation towards other places — many would be going for the Citadel, in the hourly shuttles. Those who didn’t quite have the money for it, may choose to walk instead. The roads were wide and kept safe, because neither the very rich nor the very poor would take shuttles.

 

Riding was the preferred method for Camelot’s higher ups; horses were more than mere animals, there were a symbol of status. Every child on the planet learnt how to ride, though most would never own such an animal. Donkeys and fillies were common among the higher class of merchants, and some of the younger nobles preferred to use shiny speeders — but those were considered to be the playthings of women and cowards. Pilots were well seen, but never considered as much of a warrior as a knight would be, and few of their machinery was found around the Spaceport.

 

Arthur pulled Merlin by his elbow, directing him away from the shuttles and into the speedy trains that crossed straight into the Fyrien city. The younger man blinked twice, looking around.

 

“We’re going to the city first,” Arthur warned him, and Merlin looked worried.

 

“Is that wise?” he asked, frowning. “You’re meant to be hiding.”

 

“I doubt I’d be doing anybody any favours if I didn’t properly talk to Gwen and Lance — Leon has warned them of our coming, through some very specific codes. They’ll be waiting for us in the castle.”

 

“How are we even _getting_ in there?” Merlin asked, looking up at the looming structure.

 

The city of Fyrien rose around the cliffs of a plateau higher than the one where the spaceport stood, with the castle’s foundations already taller than the top of the Spaceport building. It looked forbidding and imposing, as it was meant to — it stood in such a strong position that no army could ever take it. The shields around it kept it impervious to airborne attack, and the entrance was so narrow that a small contingent could have held it up for ages without problems. In the Blockade, the droids had never even managed to get close to the city.

 

Arthur just smirked, though.

 

“By the front door, of course, like civilised people,” he answered, and it didn’t seem to help Merlin’s worries much. “We’re Jedi, remember, and that grants us easy access to the government officials.”

 

That made the padawan snort.

 

“Believe me, it isn’t always the case.”

 

“Not with you, I bet, as you have a talent for opening your mouth and insulting people.”

 

“I don’t, really!” he laughed as the two of them stepped from the platform into the train. “It’s just you, _master_ , that brings this out in me.”

 

“Well, I sure hope you can avoid it, since you’ll be doing the talking since if _I_ speak, someone’s sure to recognise me.”

 

“Oh, I’ll be the soul of courtesy,” assured Merlin with a grin.

 

Arthur snickered and shook his head, sitting down in one of the empty seats, his back to the large window. It wasn’t a long trip — perhaps fifteen minutes until they were down at the last station, in the front plaza of the castle entrance — but he _had_ taken it before and the whole bit in which they dipped low and went underground and into the rock left him a bit queasy. It was better not to be standing.

 

Merlin stood in front of him, his shins almost bumping against Arthur’s knees, looking out to where the train started to move above the sea. It was clear that he was drinking his fill of the view outside, but the king felt he was better off watching him; the way emotions played on his face, so different from the Jedi composure he had grown used to with Master Gaius and Master Deaton. It was just two minutes before they went under the ground, and then he sighed and sat next to Arthur.

 

“If I grew up here, I don’t think I’d ever leave,” he announced, finally.

 

“I doubt that!” Arthur couldn’t stop his laugh. “You’d grown antsy.”

 

“No, I mean it!” Merlin assured him, nodding along his words, eyebrows high. “When I started my training, I was _terribly_ homesick and _very_ lonely. Everyone around was either much younger than me or much more experienced. One of the younglings _hated_ me because he thought I had stolen his master — honestly!” Arthur just smiled at it, shaking his head at Merlin’s face. “And with everything — Master Nimueh and all — the only _pleasant_ things I had to think about was Will, my Mom and Camelot… But, of course, the more I thought about _them_ , the worse I felt. I felt I had _abandoned_ them to their fate…”

 

Arthur wondered if it was now a good moment to talk about Hunith and Will — about what he had done. He hadn’t done it for praise, or for anything other than that it was the right thing to do — the _least_ he _could_ do for the boy that had saved them all — but he had never wanted Merlin to find out from _others,_ and since they had met again, there hadn’t been a good time for it. The padawan just continued, though, and the moment was gone.

 

“… I would feel better if I though about Camelot — the green forests and the open plains, the way the Palace’s tower shimmered in the sunlight — the way you can always feel the smell of rain in the air… Or, here, the sea, I suppose, and I didn’t even believe it could feel _better_ than the Citadel did, but it really does — so peaceful.”

 

“The soft sound of the sea lapping into the land,” Arthur agreed, nodding. “Th first time I came to Fyrien I was just a child — I had never seen the sea before. I thought it was the most beautiful thing I had ever seen — I wanted to live in _this_ palace.”

 

“Oooh, you were a rebel child, were you? What else did you dream of? Becoming a _farmer_ and running away from the pressures of the crown?”

 

There was undeniable teasing in Merlin’s voice, and had it been the case, Arthur _knew_ that he wouldn’t have mocked, not really. Still, there had never been a question for him about where his duty lay, and he just laughed back at the padawan.

 

“Oh, no, rebellion was the _last_ thing on my mind. I _knew_ what I was meant to do and I did my best to be worthy of it. Not because I love politics, but because I wanted to _help_ people — and that is what a good leader does. Early on, all I wanted was to train with my sword and weapons and never even look at the books and complicated arrangements of the Republic, but old Geoffrey  wouldn’t have it, and even my father was forced into lessons from time to time. The more I studied, the more I noticed how intricate it all was, how one could never be a truly _good_ leader if all they had was military prowess. My father, he was a _great_ leader of man, but he wasn’t nearly as talented in politics, and it pushed us into far too many messes — even after I was born. Diplomatic blunderings, really. Without my uncle and Aredian, we’d have gone into war half a dozen times. After my uncle died…” Arthur sighed, shaking his head and trying to conjure up in his head the image of the uncle he had barely met. “After my father was forced to abdicate to take the Camelot’s seat in the Senate…”

 

“… That never made any sense to me,” Merlin confessed. “Why couldn’t Aredian just…”

 

Arthur raised his shoulders a tiny bit, because it was so complicated to explain things like it — it was just _how it was done_ — how things happened in Camelot.

 

“Royals are bred and raised to rule — traditionally, each royal couple _must_ have at least two children — one to be the heir of the throne, one to be the heir of the Senate. The Senate position is passed by uncle to nephew when the younger prince reaches his twenty-fifth birthday. That’s when they get to retire and continue to their own pursuits,” he gestured his hand, waving it away before continuing. “You know that all of Albion is led by hereditary royalty, they’d never respect or listen to a man — or worse, a woman — that did not have royal blood in their veins. We may be part of a Republic, but there is still a _strong_ monarchist sentiment — the point is, nobles are the only one considered fit to dabble in politics.”

 

“Senator Aredian holds the seat now,” Merlin offered, with a frown. “And he _isn’t_ directly related to you, is he?”

 

“No — but he _is_ a noble, and he used to be married to my grandfather’s youngest daughter — he was one of my grandfather’s wards, and he ended up marrying a princess, and gaining the title of Prince himself. And, fear not, he has _some_ royal blood in him — on his mother’s side, from my great-great grandfather? Something like that. Still, people merely _accept_ him, and I’ve been nagged more often than not for being failing my duties in not being there instead of here — at least for the last five years. My peers would rather see me leave the planet to Regents than to work for _my people first_ and for the rest later.”

 

Arthur shook his head, trying not to think about it. He had grown tired of listening about his failure, although since he had started with the whole Ashkanar Pact, they hadn’t spoken much of it. It was still there, nagging in the corner of his brain, though. It seemed that by forging the alliance between them — one that was aimed at far more than his own planet — he had done far more than it was his expected role as a king, but not because he _wanted_ to join the Senate, but because he had a _conviction_ that they should help more. Do more. Offer more.

 

“ _Your_ people love you,” Merlin reminded him, and Arthur gestured to pull the hood closer to his face, hiding it. “Whatever the rest says.”

 

“You may be right,” the king conceded, lowering his face. “But I was _too_ young when I got to the throne — not even seventeen. When I think back on it, I don’t think I was old enough — the whole blockade… I could have handled it better.”

 

“You’ve done _brilliantly_!” Merlin insisted, and Arthur snorted, shaking his head.

 

“I’d never have managed it without external help — without _you._ Having a twelve year old winning battles isn’t what is considered _brilliantly_ in Camelot.”

 

Merlin laughed out loud, shaking his head, and his expression was fond. I2-SA beeped something, and the Jedi’s eyes turned towards the droid.

 

“Yes, you helped too — you were essential to the whole thing,” Arthur agreed, even without being able to understand the words, the tone was obvious, and Merlin petted it’s dome.

 

“I2-SA was brilliant,” he agreed, still grinning.

 

“You both were,” Arthur answered, and the two of them shared a smile. “I am _glad_ we found you, I think you are destined for great things.”

 

“So are you,” the padawan replied, blushing, as if Arthur didn’t know he was considered a prodigy among the Jedi, as if he was anything more than a mere king among thousands of rulers. “I feel things are going to happen in our generation that will change the galaxy in profound ways — and I feel that you’ll be in the centre of it.”

 

“I hope not!” Arthur joked, shaking his head. “All I want is some peace and quiet!”

 

Merlin laughed again in reply and at that moment, he wasn’t as bothered as usual by the rushing train under the ground, in the darkness, he wasn’t worried about Leon and the rest of his men that were under a serious threat, he wasn’t angry that he would be hiding. At that moment, Arthur could almost believe it would be alright.

 

* * *

 

 

Back inside the calmness of the Temple, Mordred felt much less daunted by the prospect of reaching out to Kaminoans in search of answers — it would be just one more negotiation, and there wouldn’t be any need for subterfuge; in many ways, it was a simpler mission than the one Merlin had. The Besalisk had given him quite precise coordinates to the planet, and if he never enjoyed going through the Rishi Maze, no one else needed to know. There were worse places, for certain.

Sitting on one of the many work stations that peppered the library, Mordred opened up the program that should give him information about the place, but upon looking up the coordinates, it showed nothing. Mordred frowned, wondering if he had noted anything wrong, but he _had_ double checked each one of them. The Master Librarian sensed his disturbance and approached him, a smile in her serene old face.

“Can I help you, dear?”

“I’m looking for a planet,” he explained, gesturing towards the program. “But I can’t find it in the archives.”

The old lady smiled at him, in perfect calm.

“Well, either you have the wrong coordinates, or there is no planet there.”

“I’m sure I have the right ones.”

“So it doesn’t exist,” although her tone was matter-of-factly, it bothered Mordred greatly. He did not believe he had been lied to. “If it did, it would be in the archives.”

Mordred wished he could have such a simple explanation for it, but something kept tugging him and saying that it was wrong.

“Could it be that the information was erased?” he asked, and she looked offended.

“No!” she said, shaking her head vehemently. “Who would _do_ such a thing?”

“Someone that didn’t want people to stumble on the planet?” he asked, and the librarian scoffed.

“Only a Council Member or a Librarian Master could erase information from the archives,” she dismissed, easily. “Unless you’re accusing either…”

It wouldn’t have been political to do so in her face, but it _was_ strange that they would just be missing like that. He stood up, getting his drive back and was about to walk away when something caught his attention. It was nothing new, but suddenly his eyes were draw to the busts that decorated the middle lane of the library, their stone eyes seemed to be watching him against all possibilities. His hand seemed to be working of his own accord as he reached and touched one of the faces.

“The Lost Twenty,” the librarian explained, needlessly, for every Jedi child learnt their stories by heart; how they had chosen to walk away from the Order to serve the Force in different ways. It might amaze outsiders the respect and reverence they held towards those to abandoned them, but it was — or at least used to be — a tenant of the Order that the Force should be served as it willed to be, first and foremost, with obedience to the Order coming only after that. Nimueh had embedded that teaching to her heart, not always to the best consequences. And if that was true of her, it was even more true of her former master.

His steps led him towards the newest of the busts, not ten years old yet, and he stared at the carved face of Count Peter. The librarian seemed to still be on his tail, for she lost no time in starting again.

“We all miss him fiercely,” it was her turn to caress one of the statues, as if it was a living thing. “Master Peter was… Brilliant, and a joy to be around. His advice might have helped us avoid this whole separatist crisis.”

“His _advice_ , as you say, is _exactly_ what led them to leave the Republic,” he reminded her, not feeling as kindly towards the man as he usually was, not after Morgana’s warnings and the suspicion looming in his head. “ _None_ of this would have reached this proportions without his meddling.”

That didn’t stop the librarian from grinning, a longing look in her eyes.

“Yes — Peter could never deal well with being ignored, and the Council and the Republic did it far too often, for its own loss. Still, he will serve the Force as it wills him, not as we wish it willed him.”

And looking once again at the statue, Mordred could only wonder _which side_ of the Force was the former Master serving when he erased information from the archives.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 


	6. Chapter 6

 

It had been surprisingly easy to get access to the Fyrien Castle, which didn’t bode well in Merlin’s opinion, but Arthur did not seem concerned with it. He would never understand how flippant the man could be about his own safety, but the reason why he wasn’t worried became clear as soon as they were led to the council room. It was a building that had little similarity to Camelot’s centre of power; the windows were but slits, and instead of wooden floors and painted walls, Fyrien kept the bare austerity of grey stone everywhere, including on the empty royal seat. It took them a minute to find the people in the room, but soon Arthur was being attacked by a mass of curls and silk in floral perfume.

“When will you learn?”

As she stepped back, Merlin recognised Gwen; her eyes filled with tears and her face a mix of annoyance and relief. Her curly hair was cut short now, and it bounced as she moved from holding her king to attacking her with her tiny fists.

“Should have listened to her! She _told you_ not to go! Two attacks in _one day_!” she was saying as she hit his arms, and Merlin would have been alarmed, but Arthur was laughing at her outburst.

“I’m absolutely fine,” he assured her, which Merlin thought was the understatement of the century, but it wasn’t his place to speak up. “Lance, a little help?”

Merlin had felt another benign presence in the room, but he had been so entertained by Gwen’s actions that he hadn’t fully realised it was Lancelot, one of the knights that had been with them when he first left Tattooine. The man came quickly towards them, a smile upon his face as he held delicately Gwen’s arms, stopping her from hitting her liege more.

“Come on, love, this won’t help,” he said, his voice soothing, and Gwen let herself be taken a step back.

“He deserves it!” she complained, shaking her head at them.

“Yes, and I promise I’ll do my best to give him a sound beating next time we’re training,” Lancelot answered, before catching himself and looking at his King, who shrugged and nodded. “Will that be enough?”

“No,” she said, darkly, freeing herself from his arms, but clearly calmer. “But I’ll settle for it.”

“You know, for someone that was so scared that I would be harmed, you’re doing your best to hurt me,” Arthur said, and she shot him a look that might make another man wither.

“As if!” She dismissed it, with a gesture, and composed herself again, but her eyes showed clear signs of worrying.

Arthur took a step ahead, caught her hand in his and kissed it.

“I promise I’ll lay low for now,” he tried to placate her, and she sniffed, pulling her hand back.

“Don’t you _dare_ letting us with Aggravaine for a king!” she warned him, and he laughed.

“I wouldn’t dare — how much has he already botched as a regent?”

Gwen took a deep breath, shaking her head.

“Well, he’s been getting in shouting matched with the council, and trying hard, but we managed to curb the worst of his ideas — you should be really glad that we’re all so damn loyal to you, because Aggravaine has done his best to buy our agreement to things.”

Arthur frowned, seeming worried about it for a moment, before shaking his head.

“There’s not much I can do about it now,” he told her, sounding sad. “But the Pact of Ashkanar was a resounding success, and I’m confident we will be able to help the Republic with it.”

Gwen nodded and smiled, and Lancelot seemed incredibly proud.

“Yes, it’s for the greater good, we all know,” Lancelot teased, and Arthur let out a guffaw at it. “Still, doesn’t make it easier to deal with your uncle.”

“No, it wouldn’t,” Arthur agreed, and Merlin had to wonder why he was leaving his planet in the hands of someone he clearly did not trust — probably some silly notion about noble blood. “I’ll have to consider — if it comes to the worst — how to keep him away from Camelot,” he smiled towards Gwen. “If you feel you’re up to the challenge…?”

“Let’s hope it doesn’t get to this point,” she told him, briskly. “There is hope, is there not, that it will never come to war?”

The men in the room exchanged glances at her words, and her shoulders slumped a bit.

“Let’s worry about the present crisis, then,” she steered the conversation, and Arthur nodded in perfect agreement. “I think I have found the perfect spot for you to hide while the investigation is going on.”

“Do tell,” encouraged Arthur, and she gestured them towards the table.

The holoimage showed an island, and, much like the one in Fryen, the hill in the middle of it was topped by something between a castle and a palace. Even in the image it seemed peaceful, quiet and far too open to be easily guarded.

“The Isle of the Blessed,” the chatelaine announced, with something of a sparkle in her eyes.

“That was… _not_ what I was expecting,” Arthur replied, but he seemed rather happy about the prospect.

“I figured — since you had to be away — well, no one would expect you to _be_ there. I don’t even think people realise it has been cared for this whole time — the maintenance droids are still running, and everything seems to be in order — and it’d be the last place someone would look for you.”

“Why?” Merlin asked, intrigued, and for the first time, she looked at him.

“Can this be…?” she asked, her smile becoming huge, “it _is_ Merlin, isn’t it?”

“The one and only,” he joked, and she stepped ahead to hug him. It was completely unexpected, but not unwelcome.

“Oh, Gods, you _have_ grown,” her voice was proud and motherly, and it made him ache once again. “I was glad to hear the Jedi had taken you in.”

“Thank you,” he said, and the tips of his ears were burning.

“We were all very proud,” agreed Lancelot, while Arthur nodded and smiled at him softly, and he couldn’t do anything but grin back at them all.

“Yes — but you need not to prove yourself to us — you were already a hero for every camelotian,” Gwen continued, looking between him and the king. “Both of you are — so I expect you to be in your best behaviour. _Hiding_ and not _saying you’re hiding_ and going off in insane heroics.”

Merlin giggled at the memory, bittersweet as it was, and Arthur just shook his head fondly.

“I promised you I would be in my best behaviour not five minutes ago!” He reminded her.

“And we all know how much such promises amount to,” she mumbled, while Lancelot cleared his throat.

“Chancellor Uther forbid all access and all reference to The Isle of the Blessed,” explained the knight, finally, and Merlin could do but frown.

“That was my mother’s dowry castle,” Arthur said, looking sad. “It had been in her family for ages, and it was her favourite place in all of Camelot. Once she died, my father decided it shouldn’t be… _tainted_ , but stay as a sanctuary for her memory. He put measures in place — and, to be honest, I never even thought about them long enough to remember removing it, or had the time to go over and check the place for myself. Some prohibitions… Well, I mostly forgot it existed.”

There was so much naked longing and guilt in his face, things Merlin understood so well, and he wished he could do something — say something — to make it go away, but he didn’t know what exactly.

“And no one blames you for that,” Gwen replied, smiling. “But I felt that you’d like to…”

“You’re right,” Arthur answered, clearing his throat and banishing away his emotions. “This is incredibly well-thought of, Gwen, thank you.”

The praise made her blush a little, but she disassembled well, shacking her head.

“It was the least I could do — and the defences also help.”

“It doesn’t look like an easy place to defend,” Merlin answered, looking at the image again. “Far too open, and far too…”

“The image does not make it justice,” Gwen assured him. “Of course, the first and foremost reason to choose it is the fact that no one would think to go there — it was visited but twice by anybody since Arthur was born. The island is in the middle of a lake that is perpetually shrouded in mist, which makes visibility from the outside difficult, and from city side, is is behind a huge chain of mountains that are not easily crossed by land. Easiest way to get to it is from west, where it’s near the shore, but there’s no open port, merely the Royal pier, which would alert us all if used and still give you a few hours to leave before anybody reached you. And all the locks are blood bound.”

“Blood bound?” Merlin asked, confused, for he hadn’t heard of such a thing before.

“The front doors won’t open for those that aren’t in the correct bloodline,” Lancelot explained, as if it was a simple thing.

“What? _How_ does that even work?”

“There’s but one access to it, coming from the one small pier in the island,” Gwen explained to both. “And the front door — Arthur, you’ll have to place your hand in the reader for it to allow you two inside — same thing from inside, when you two are ready to come out. The device reads mitochondrial DNA, and only those with DeBois or Pendragon blood can enter.”

“So, I’ll be trapped inside,” Merlin asked, not particularly enjoying the idea. “Unless the prat here lets me leave.”

“Well, you _are_ supposed to stay put,” she answered, with a shrug. “And you can hardly fault it as a security system.”

Indeed, he could not. He shrugged, accepting that there were worst fates than being locked inside a palace with Arthur, but he still had questions.

“How do we get there, then? Won’t people around notice if someone suddenly pops into the royal port? Not to mention, how to we cross the lake?”

“For starters, we’re smuggling you out through the royal port under the palace,” Lancelot started. “It’s known that Gwen’s visiting, and as an official representative of the Council, she has the right to use it while in business.”

“Luckily, the place were _you_ ’ll need to get down close enough to our usual route that no one will notice when we do stop there,” she continued. “We couldn’t place your horses or speeders without attracting attention, but the ones in the post should be enough.”

“We adjusted Percival’s schedule so he’ll be the one on the port, we figured he’d be the one you’d prefer to have there.”

Arthur nodded in agreement, and Merlin couldn’t help admiring just how in sync those two were.

“When do we leave?” the king asked, clearly ready to depart.

“One hour,” the two answered at once, and the look they traded at it could have melt Hoth. “Now, before we go, I figured you’d be hungry,” Gwen continued. “So I took the liberty of having a meal ready for you.”

“I knew I liked you for a reason,” joked Merlin and they all laughed, and that moment, it was as if there was no danger at all.

* * *

 

It felt, to Mordred, something like a failure to ask — again — for help, but there was little more he could do. It might not have been so bad if he could have done what most knights would have done in such circumstances — look for their former masters — but this was not a possibility. Nimueh was ten years gone, and her own master had turned his back to the Order. Count Peter, once, had trained under Master Kilgharrah, but it would take more courage than Mordred had to bother the Grand Master with his questions — and while the Jedi swore to have no families, training lines were almost the same, accusing (or implying guilt) to him would be akin to telling a parent their child was stealing.

He could have gone to Gaius, of course, who was close enough for him not to feel ashamed, but as good as the old man was, he had been in the council for too short a time to be of help. In the end, the decision was based more on logic than on affinity, and Mordred felt mildly discomfited as he knocked on the classroom door.

Master Grettir was barely taller than Mordred’s waist, but his presence commanded the attention of all the younglings around as he talked about the stars systems in the midrim. He did not seem surprised to find Mordred interrupting his class.

“Master Grettir?” he asked, unsure. “I won’t interrupt now, I just wanted to know if later —”

The diminutive master laughed and gestured him inside, where the children watched him curiously.

“Come in, young Mordred, come in,”  Mordred smiled at them, trying to make them more at ease with his intrusion. “Now, tell us, what sort of dead-end did you investigation lead to that you’d look for a former investigator to help?”

“Should it be discussed here?” he asked, not because he doubted their loyalty to the Order, but because it would be best if some of those things did not become part of the gossip of the Temple, and children were not always completely discreet.

“Why not?” The older man gave him a sharp smile. “So, I take it you discovered where the dart came from.”

“The archive droids couldn’t place it,” he started, and the master seemed both unsurprised and unconcerned with it. “So I ended up having to try and find… Other informants.”

“Yes, you have,” agreed Grettir, looking like a cat ready to pounce on its prey. “I hope Dex was helpful?”

Of course, his little excursion would not have gone unnoticed to the man whose job was the gather as much information as possible about all matters concerning the Order. Mordred nodded, smiling back.

“It was… most illuminating. He gave me coordinates to the place it was manufactured, and it may be possible to find more information there.”

“Does not seem like you have a problem, then;” the master said, and Mordred could only shake his head in disagreement.

“I went to the Library to check the coordinates, but the there’s nothing in our maps.”

“Don’t you say?” Master Grettir’s eyebrow rose in something that was at once reproach and amusement. “I trust you have them with you?”

He gestured towards the projector, and Mordred inserted the numbers he now knew by heart. The whole room darkened as it was put back into use, and all around them, stars systems and constellations came to life, above and beneath their heads. Mordred needed but a second to figure out where he stood before pointing at the empty spot where Kamino was supposed to be.

“Here — but, as you can see, there’s nothing there.”

“Indeed,” Master Grettir turned towards his pupils instead. “What do you see, uh?”

The children were silent for a second, and Mordred was puzzled, and eventually a small nautolan girl rose her hand.

“Sir? The system is not there, sir, but it’s supposed to be,” she said, her voice tiny but firm. “Look at the other systems and stars around — everything fits perfectly. If it really wasn’t there…”

“… the gravity would be different, yes,” agreed another child, a togruta. “So, _someone_ took it out of the map.”

“Very good, Em and Kara,” praised the Jedi. “So, young Mordred, if you just trust the information you have, you will reach the place you need.”

“Yes,” Mordred agreed, because he had reached the same conclusion upon watching the map. “ _That_ is what worries me — Master, why should someone take it out of the map? And most importantly, _how_?”

Master Grettir looked at him for a moment before sitting himself on the top of one of the desks and taking a deep breath.

“The why will undoubtedly be clear once you arrive,” he started, addressing Mordred’s first concern. “The how… I gather you have a good idea of the _who_ if you came to _me_ for aid instead of another master.”

“I fear so,” agreed Mordred, and he was relieved to see that at least someone in the council shared his concern. “But — he shouldn’t be able to…”

“Unless it was done before,” agreed master Grettir, frowning. “You’ve given me much to think of, young Mordred. Many things I shall have to check upon — and I am sorry, but we’re stretched thin as we are, and whatever mysteries lye in Kamino, you’ll have to discover alone.”

“I shall do my best, master.”

Master Grettir nodded and said nothing, but it was clear that he thought, as the others had, that Mordred could handle it alone, even without being a specialist in the area. Mordred bowed to them, threw the children a smile, and was almost out of the door when he spoke again.

“I hope the force is with you, young Mordred. You’ll need it.”

With those ominous parting words, he turned back to his class, a easy smile on his face, and back to his duty. Mordred could only wish that he could shed his worries as quickly.

* * *

 

 

To Arthur, the Isle of the Blessed had always sounded like a mythical, magical place that was far too different from his life, but the reality of it was even more fantastical. He knew, of course, that the proximity of the lake to the sea was the real reason behind the thick mist that kept it hidden, but it to him it looked like a fairy tale come to life. His horse shook its head, unsettled by it, and Arthur patted it distractedly, a secret part of his heart singing at the sight of the island ahead. He had never admitted, even to himself, just how much he wanted to see the place that his mother had loved so, the one place in all of Camelot that seemed to keep part of her alive.

Gwen, of course, had known — but that came from her own experience in dealing with the loss of a parent, not anything he had done. It helped, too, that she had been the one to accompany Morgana, the only person to have been there since Uther had declared the palace out of bounds, on his sister’s only visit to Camelot after the invasion from the Trade Federation. He had yarned to ask her about it — lacking the time and courage to visit himself — but pride and the knowledge that he was unlikely to pry anything from her had stopped him. Now, it was his turn.

“Looks beautiful,” Merlin said, and Arthur nodded his agreement. He had almost forgotten the presence of the young Jedi next to him upon looking at their hideout, but if he had to share the moment with someone, Merlin seemed like a good choice.

“Let’s go,” he said, not allowing himself to dwell too long in the mood.

It was no easy task to lead horses inside a small boat, for the creatures were known to be skittish around water and disoriented by the unstable ground, but Merlin kept whispering endearments to their mounts, and soon they were inside. Arthur wondered how he could so easily make the animal do its will when he could barely keep his seat while riding, but it didn’t matter. Arthur turned the engine on with a touch, and in seconds they were gliding through the water and into the thick mist.

It took but a few minutes for them to reach land again, and up close, the castle was even more impressive. The walls were not as high as some of the fortifications he had seen in other parts of the planet; and the ivy that covered much of it lent them a unique grace. He walked on, trying to look as if he knew where he was going, and Merlin followed with his own horse. The huge gates were easily identified, but whatever paths had been once marked on the grass from the trampling of feet had long since disappeared. Soon, they were at it.

Oak and iron seemed to work together the heraldic drawing of the DeBois crest, hiding the inside from prying eyes. It had no handles and no bells, no clear way of getting inside but a small screen on the left side of the door frame, encircled by marble to make it less conspicuous in its surroundings. Taking a deep breath, Arthur approached, resting his left hand against it. He had expected a regular scanning, but instead he felt a small pinch and something buzzing against his skin before it’s light turned off again.

“Now we wait,” he said, unsure of how long before the system allowed them entrance.

Merlin said nothing in return, observing the device up-close instead. Their palfreys moved behind them, as if sensing his impatience, and the padawan turned from the screen to the king, raising an eyebrow as if questioning what troubled him. Arthur just shook his head, unsure of what to say, counting the beats of his heart and hoping that Gwen had been right about the workings of the system.

Then, the doors opened by themselves, giving Arthur the first glimpse of the palace his mother had loved so. The central patio was dominated by a circular fountain. Around it, marble columns hugged by flowers adorned the place, with stone benches sitting in the shadows created by the canopy of plants. Behind it, he could see the central part of palace, it’s doors open, and on the sides, secondary doors opened to the housings of servants on the right, and stables on the left. It was a place of beauty and peace, and he could well understand why someone who had been raised as she had would love it so.

He hardly took notice when a protocol droid came and took the reins of the horses from Merlin’s hands, his eyes still feasting on the sights of the place he had never thought to visit before; but once the padawan was beside him, he felt compelled to speak.

“My mother grew up in the Jedi Temple,” he told the boy, not sure why. “I think… I think she missed it, once she was sent back home. This place would feel…”

“Like home,” Merlin agreed, with a small smile. “There’s peace here. And silence. It can’t be easy to someone trained as a Jedi to become Queen.”

“No, it can’t have been. But I like to think she was happy in her choices, either way.”

“I’m sure she was,” he said, and there was something impossibly soothing about his voice.

“I’m glad to be here, Merlin,” he confessed, finally. “I thought… I thought it would be unbearable, to have to hide when everything I want is to make sure the things I have been working for are going as they should, while we may as well he running right into a war, but…” he turned towards the padawan beside him, letting himself smile in a way he hardly ever did, “But maybe it won’t be so bad, will it?”

“No,” Merlin answered, his voice a bit rough and something unnamed shinning in his eyes. “Maybe it won’t.”

* * *

 

When Mordred returned to his rooms, Morgana was there waiting for him. She had known it wouldn’t be long before he was ready to leave, and she could not let him go without seeing him one last time, not when she knew that whenever they met next, everything would be different.

“Afraid I was going to disappear without saying anything?” he teased, and she raised an eyebrow.

“You were about to do just that,” the master reminded him, trying and failing to be as playful as she usually was, but he was not fooled.

“I take it you didn’t just want to say goodbye.”

Morgana shook her head, her wavy hair unbound for once, hiding part of her face. What had brought her to his rooms was far more than her usual concern for his well-being, and now that the time came to talk about it, she wasn’t ready to speak. The Jedi took a deep breath, trying to organise her thoughts, to focus on the present and on the presence next to her, but more and more it was as if Mordred was halfway to the future already and what she was seeing was nothing more than a memory that happened to have physical form.

“I fear that once you get inside that ship, our whole universe will change,” she said, finally.

“You fear,” he asked, and it was clear in his face that he dreaded her answer, “or you know?”

The seer looked up at him, and her eyes held the answer in ways her words never could. Mordred sighed, but didn’t seem really surprised. Whatever had happened, it was clear that  he knew that there was more to this mission than an assassination attempt. She wondered what it was that he had learnt, but discarded the consideration the next second, because it was obvious that she would find out in her own time.

“I can’t say anything for sure — and I what I know, I’ve told you. It’s just this impression that we’re now running up to it.”

“You mean to war,” Morgana shrugged.

“To destiny.”

They remained in silence for a while, lost to their own thoughts. She observed the his quarters for a moment, the way in which his things were carefully organised and Merlin’s items scattered around in the corners. She wondered how long it would be before he was able to be back to it, and banished the thought with a shake of her head. Mordred would probably be pleased not to have to deal with Merlin’s mess.

“You’re worried about Merlin,” Morgana said, finally, a small smile in the corner of her mouth, trying to lighten the mood. “No matter what the council said, you don’t think he should be alone.”

Mordred looked up with the tiniest shake of his head.

“He’s good, Morgana, you have no idea how talented he is, truly. He’s compassionate to fault, and quick to think, and when it comes to piloting or fighting, he can abandon himself in the Force with an ease that would make Master Kilgharrah jealous.”

“So what _is_ the matter?” she prodded, and he let out a long held breath, unburdening himself to her.

“The problem, Morgana, is that he _knows it_. He _knows_ how good he is, and he when you put it together with his big heart, it can lead him to just jump without looking into things, never considering the consequences if it’ll make those he care about _happy_.”

The Jedi master looked at him for the longest time, her face carefully blank, before she said something.

“He values you so much — and by all you said, and if he truly wants to make you happy, he won’t do anything rash but protect Arthur’s life at any cost.”

Mordred gave her a self-deprecating smile, for it was clear that he thought she still hadn’t grasped the real problem.

“I said he would do whatever he could to make people he cares about happy — and he cares about Arthur.”

That made her laugh, truly amused at his comment, because a blind person could see how much the three of them cared about each other in spite of whatever distance they should have held, in spite of the many years spent apart. Mordred had never been plagued by this sort of insecurity, and it was funny that _now,_ with so much at stake, he would focus on something so… minimal.

“So, what you’re saying, is that you’re worried that Merlin likes _Arthur_ better than he likes _you._ ”

The comment was so unfair that it left him speechless for a moment, and he couldn’t help but cross his arms, feeling the need to explain himself.

“Don’t make it about me — it’s not. Have you _seen_ the _way_ Merlin looks at Arthur?”

“I have,” she agreed, still beguiled by it.

“And…?” he asked, knowing there was no way that Morgana had no inkling of the underlying problem there.

“And it’s much the same way _you_ look at Arthur!”

Morded gasped, truly disbelieving that she would tease him when he was pointing out something serious.

“No, Morgana…”

“Mordred, honestly,” she interrupted him, putting her hand on his arm. “Both of you look at my brother as if he had hung the sun on the sky. And, I get it, I really do, because he _does_ have that effect on most people. There’s no real issue with it. It doesn’t make it more likely that Merlin will break his word and go around in adventures, and Arthur _does_ look at you as if he owned you his very life — which, in fact, he does, so point for him there — so, I _doubt_ he would just try and convince Merlin to go… Well, whatever sort of shenanigans you seem to be expecting them to get themselves into. Both of them believe that you can solve this, and are counting on you to solve it. They will _not_ risk themselves unnecessarily.”

“That is not the only thing that worries me…” he pointed out, because she seemed to have bypassed the core of the issue. “Merlin _cares_ too much about Arthur — and not just in a _friendly_ way. His mind…”

“… Is in the place I’d expect it to be, considering he’s twenty-two and has been living with a man that pretends he cares nothing for physical urges for the last ten years.” Her criticism was in point, and there was nothing he could say against it. “None of us took a chastity vow, Mordred, so if they _do_ let themselves… What exactly is the matter with it?”

“I fear Merlin cannot give his body without giving his heart as well,” he confessed, finally, colour rising on his cheeks. “And I fear we’ve just locked him up with far too much temptation.”

Morgana leaned her head a bit to the side as she regarded him, her thoughts carefully guarded. Mordred just stood there, looking back at her, utterly clueless of his own self — of his own feelings — the things he had grown so used to deny himself that became a secret so carefully guarded that he couldn’t acknowledge even in his dreams. She didn’t know how she might have missed it before, when it now shone so clearly, so obviously in every breath he took. There was nothing for her to do but hold him close.

“Oh, Mordred…” her voice was muffled against his hair, “Oh my dear heart…”

She said no more, and there was no need for it, there was nothing he could do but hold her back, hoping, against all logic, that it would be alright.

 

* * *

 

There was something oddly intimate about staying in a Palace with just one other human for company. His whole life, Merlin had been surrounded by people — in Tattooine and in the Temple, even in missions, rarely he had been left alone in such a sprawling space. He took a deep breath, smelling the herbs and flowers of the Southern Cliff garden as he walked, his steps timed with his heartbeats. It was a beautiful place, where the castle walls met nature-made stone that dominated that part of the island, the soft sound of the water trickling down the rock and meeting the small pond under it, were waterbirds swam. It was a peaceful place, but Merlin couldn’t find peace within himself.

He had always known he was sensitive to other people, and the sudden closeness to Arthur was almost overwhelming. It hadn’t been easy, learning the principles of the Jedi, learning how to detach himself from things, but it had never seemed so hard — no, impossible. He couldn’t even begin to pretend that he cared nothing for Arthur save from the mission he had, as he knew he should. Closely confined together, it was impossible to distance himself from him. Merlin had never before spent so much time alone with someone else, save his mother and Mordred — and no one would demand him to be truly indifferent to either, no one would berate him for his fierce loyalty to both, and yet, with the King that had accepted him before anyone else in the Republic, he was suddenly was expected to put aside all feeling and be just another Jedi.

It felt incongruous that the Council wanted that of him, did they not realise how important Arthur’s figure had been to a young boy pulled away from home and drifting in a new reality?

The proximity, the lack of activity, it all made him feel antsy. He had grown accustomed to at least some semblance of a routine, and to his master’s soothing presence. For all he had told Arthur — and Mordred — about being ready for his trials; he was not sure he wanted to forgo the company. Kneeling on the grass, his saber on resting in front of him, Merlin closed his eyes, looking inside himself for the Force, hoping for guidance, for tranquillity. Habit made his breathing even, and training led his mind to where it needed to go. As usual, the centre of the Force was within reach as soon as he closed his eyes, and if it had been inconstant lately, it couldn’t be felt at that late afternoon in Camelot, when it shone bright and strong, a guiding light in his life.

He was not surprised when he heard Arthur’s steps approaching, although not a Force sensitive, the King had a distinct aura around him that resonated through it. Once he was close enough, Merlin opened his eyes, allowing himself to be brought back to the present.

“I see that having to come here has not interfered with your meditations,” he said, and Merlin assented.

“It’s important to stay in tune with the Force — to hear it, all the time. It makes it easier to detect danger, and I _am_ here for your protection.”

Arthur’s expression showed just exactly what he thought about that, but Merlin didn’t let himself be bothered by it. Whatever certainties Arthur had about his abilities, and whatever misgivings he had about Merlin (or even the Jedi as a whole), Merlin _knew_ he was up to it.

“And what do you feel?” asked the man pointedly.

“Nothing,” the padawan answered, truthfully. “There’s a deep peace in Camelot, in a way I haven’t felt in a long time anywhere else. It is truly a blessed place, your majesty.”

That made the king stop and stare at him, his thoughts hidden behind a courtly mask that served politicians so well but were useless against Jedi. Even without a single muscle moving, he could feel the tension and alertness his words had created in Arthur. As much as Merlin tried, he couldn’t pinpoint what he had said that had created such a reaction.

“You may not remember, Merlin, but when we were coming back from Coruscant, before the battle of Camelot, me, my knights and the Jedi with us trained together.”

“I do remember,” he said, for he’d never forget the first time he had seen the Jedi in action, the fluid movements of their bodies as they yielded the lightsaber, or the steady stance of the knights and their sure command of their weapons.

“I’d like you to train with me, while we’re here,” the man completed, then, and Merlin could only blink.

“As you wish, sire…” Still, he couldn’t help but frown. “Although I’ve just told you that there’s no cause for worry here.”

Arthur’s hands were on his waist, but he didn’t seem impatient as much as thoughtful and nodded slowly to Merlin’s words.

“Have you ever sailed, Merlin?” he asked, finally, and the random question threw him off-balance.

“Sail?” he repeated, stupidly.

“Yes, on the open sea, trying to go from one place to the other?”

“I can’t say I have.”

The king paused, once again nodding slowly, as if he was trying to find the right words to express what he wanted to say.

“I used to sail a fair amount, both when I was younger and after we met. As you know, Camelot has close no no air-traffic, and we try and avoid the excess of technology. So, eventually, when doing the Royal Progress through the planet, we use seaboats.”

“Right…” Merlin replied, frowning even more.

“Of course, we use mechanical boats and ships, but it wasn’t always like that. Once upon the time, long ago and almost forgotten to memory, the boats had no engine, but trusted the winds to carry them through water. To this day, we use sails, if only as a symbol, a way to let people know who’s coming.”

Merlin just nodded, for it was but one more of the many idiosyncrasies that marked Camelot’s society, where styles and objects long abandoned by most of the universe were used side by side with cutting edge equipments.

“Sounds fascinating,” he answered, feeling he was supposed to say something, but the king didn’t seem to be concerned with his opinion at the moment.

“What the sailors tell me is that, back then, sometimes all the wind would die and there would be a perfect calm in the sea, leaving the boats stranded in the water.”

Merlin could see the similarity to their current predicament, but it still did not explain the mounting tension inside the man he was meant to protect when he had seemed so a peace but a few hours — even a few moments — before.

“But the thing is, Merlin…” he now gave a tight smile that held no humour. “After the stillness was when the worst storms came.”

They looked at each other for a long moment, before Merlin nodded.

“We can start training first thing tomorrow.”

The king smiled, clapping his back in a friendly gesture and walked away, leaving Merlin to consider how much truth there was in the king’s misgivings.

* * *

 

Mordred approached the starfighter he would be taking with a heavy heart. The things he had discovered without meaning to were troubling, and not the most auspicious start for an investigation that he knew mattered more than some ordinary questioning life-attempts on politicians. He did not envy Master Gaius, who surely would have Chancellor Uther breathing down his neck until they were all sure that his son was safe beyond question. It was true, as well, that Mordred himself cared for the fate of the King, mayhaps more than he should, for he liked the consider him a friend, of sorts. And to conclude it all, there was Merlin, who could be a wonderful Jedi, but may not yet be ready to be left alone, as he had just told his oldest friend.

Mordred dearly wished that, if this trip was a trigger, he could just delay it; that he could just give them all more time, give _Merlin_ more time to come into his own, give _Arthur_ and his politics more time to be effective, to have them all safe, but it was nothing more than a wish. For all his friend had described it as they running towards conflict, it felt more like being swept by currents that were far beyond their control — the will of the Force. All he could do was trust that if the Force was guiding them towards it, it also had a way to lead them towards safety on the other side.

He was not surprised, though, to find Gaius waiting for him in front of the ship.

“Mordred,” the old man said, with a tight smile.

He took a deep breath, picking up the helmet he would be using and setting it on the top of the closest wing. It was but a small gesture of defiance, but it made him feel better anyway.

“Master Gaius,” and even his voice sounded tired.

“You walk like a man who carries on his shoulders the weight of all the Republic,” the consular said, and the guardian let out a bitter laugh at that.

“It can feel that way sometimes, can’t it?”

“Indeed.”

The older man said no more, and Mordred wondered why he had been sought after all.

“Is there anything the council needs? Any information I should have before I leave?”

“No,” Gaius said, shaking his head lightly, his snowy-white hair falling to his shoulders. “So far, we have nothing.”

Mordred nodded, slowly, but he hadn’t expected them to have answers so quickly. Things were never that simple.

“But there is something wrong, isn’t there?”

The master sighted, clearly weary. It was obvious that none of them were ready to deal with the enormity of what might have happened to own of their own; and how much worse must it be for those who had grown up next to him? Mordred could remember, from what he had heard, that Gaius and Nimueh had both been in Albion’s Wars together; he also remembered that, for at least a part of that time, Master Peter had been there too, helping his recently knighted padawan with her first big assignment.

“The disturbance in the Force seems to grow stronger every day,” the man started, finally. “I’m not sure how much you can notice it, Mordred, but it _is_ a fact. You’ve spent so much time away from Coruscant recently, but you must have noticed… It is not what it once was.”

Mordred wanted to say that nowhere in the galaxy seemed to be like it once was, that the shadow of full-scale war was upon them all, that I made people behave differently even parsecs away from the capital; but he was sure that the consular knew it very well, and there was nothing to gain from making his mind even more troubled. He nodded, instead, holding his words and the older man’s shoulders dropped.

“I fear we’re heading towards what none of us wanted — towards war. Arthur’s speech was inspired, and his idea has its merits, but it doesn’t help us avoiding it. You, young men, are always thinking war is a glorious thing,” he said, with a hint of dry humour. “Or that problems can be solved by a strong arm and firm resolve. It is hardly ever true.”

“I don’t think that’s what was in his heart when he suggested that,” Mordred couldn’t help but defending the king’s actions. “I feel that he just meant to give planets a way to protect their people: to make sure that the suffering is minimised and so are the losses.”

Gaius gave him a small, sad smile at that.

“Yes, I dare say it was what he imagined — but that does not mean that’s what will happen. The Grand Army of the Republic… It doesn’t even matter, now, what the Senate will vote; Arthur’s actions will be seen as a threat, and the Separatists, who have been hungry for that war, will see it as an encouragement to attack while they have the high ground. A good gesture, undoubtedly, but one that will need time to take root, and I fear we won’t have that time. The Republic does not have an army ready to confront this threat, and I’d say _that_ is the only reason why Uther has allowed the negotiations to be delayed, the only reason why he’d look for a settlement. Years have not changed the man: he may wear the politicians mantle but he’s a soldier at heart, and if he _could_ have his way, if the Republic _could_ afford it, he’d have pursued a more… militaristic course of action.”

Mordred nodded, because it seemed like a very fair understanding of the man, and far clearer than most people would give about someone they had been friends with for such a long time, but Master Gaius vision had always been clear on that regard.

“What, exactly, is the Chancellor expecting from this investigation?” he asked, reaching the crux of the matter. He never believed that the Jedi were meant to serve at the pleasure of the Chancellor alone, but knowing his angle might help either way. “Does he _want_ me to find something that will give him a reason or… Or is he relieved that the King is no longer able to rush the matters to a conclusion before the Republic is ready?”

The consular shook his head, smiling again at Mordred’s naivete.

“It isn’t as simple as that. The Chancellor wants the truth — and he _needs_ to bid his time. The father wants his child safe, at all costs. What _Uther_ really would want was for both things at once: a reason to take drastic action against them and an army ready at moment’s notice to do it, all while Arthur’s safe and sound and free to do his duty.”

“But he can’t have it all, can he?” Mordred asked, with a sad smile of his own.

“No, my boy. I don’t think he can.”

The two men stood in silence for a while, both trying to sense in the Force what they could really expect, but it felt like running through muddled waters instead of the clear, rushing river that it usually was. After a while, the older man shook his head, as someone trying to wave away unwanted thoughts.

“It will be as the Force wills it, Mordred,” he said, finally. “Trust in it, and it’ll lead you to the truth.”

The younger man accept it with a nod of his head, picking back his helmet and gesturing his I4 unit to get in position.

“May the Force be with you, Master Gaius,” he said in lieu of goodbye.

“And with you, Mordred. And with you.”

* * *

 

The sun had not yet risen, but Arthur felt such a strong pull to leave his bed that it was almost a compulsion. All his senses seemed to be on edge, and he didn’t bother with his clothing as he left the room, only taking his sword with him. He was so tense that he was surprised to find the whole palace silent, just Merlin’s very still form as he stood on the balcony shared by both of their rooms. The padawan has his long legs spread apart and even if his arms were crossed against his chest, his posture seemed peaceful, not troubled. Against the stark lightness of the rising sun, his ears looked more conspicuous, and for the first time Arthur wondered the meaning of the beads that were tied to his single thin braid. The younger man seemed to be deep in meditation, and was about to leave him be when his voice rung through the air.

“Is there a problem, sire?”

His tone of voice and his address were proper, deferential a they should be when talking to a reigning sovereign, but coming from Merlin, it didn’t sound reassuring at all.

“Couldn’t sleep, Merlin?”

Taking a last deep breath, the Jedi let his arms down and closed his legs, before turning towards the king, his eyes open once again.

“I’m an early riser,” he said, and somehow, Arthur doubted that it was true. His face was smooth and untroubled, and there was nothing to indicate a lie, but Arthur would be a poor king if he couldn’t read the things that were not voiced, and there was little that could hide the shadows underneath his eyes.

“Having nightmares again?”

He almost missed the sharp intake of breath, or the surprise in the incredibly blue eyes before Merlin blinked, seeming at perfect ease again.

“It’s nothing to worry about. I feel that in this peaceful place, they’ll just fade away.”

Arthur did not know if Merlin believed it to be true or if he merely _wanted_ to believe it to be true. Remembering their conversation days before, he decided that it was time to finally talk about things he should have let Merlin know long before.

“Was it about your mother, again?”

There was a new tautness in the padawan’s mouth, and he nodded.

“It’s been — constant — for the last few weeks. The Jedi say we must let go, even of those we love, but it is _hard_. I can’t help but worry about her safety. I can’t help but fear that these are _warnings_ , not just dreams. I’m not Morgana, but… Sometimes, before you came to Tattooine, sometimes I would dream of things yet to come. It hasn’t happened in a long time; and I thought that it was just the way the Force found to communicate with me while I tried to shut it away at any cost, but now…”

His voice trailed off, and once again he was just a young man, one that was trapped between heavy duty and his heart. Arthur couldn’t help but see himself in his position, for those same things had been in his head and mind, both when he was Merlin’s age and now.

“Merlin, about your mother…” he started, but the padawan interrupted him.

“I know you’re going to say you’re sure she’s fine — but I don’t think you truly understand, Arthur, just how _hard_ is the kind of life she leads. A slave… A slave is never seen as a person, and is not considered a big loss. And Kanen… I’m not sure what to make of Kanen. He was not the worst of masters, but he was a gambler, and who knows where she’s now, if she’s…”

“I know where she is,” he told Merlin, simply, because if he _could_ ease his mind, he would. Merlin’s eyes looked huge in his face, and Arthur suddenly felt extremely self-conscious. What he had done, he had done because he believed it was right; he had done it out of gratitude and a sense of duty, a need to repay the service the boy had unwittingly and bravely given him. He was not, though, a man that liked to talk about his feelings, or that was comfortable in admitting to the softer side of himself. “There’s something I must tell you — and probably I should have let you know long ago, but I didn’t want — I’m not a man to send notes through others, not if I can help.”

Merlin just kept looking at him, seeming both eager, curious and completely lost to where the conversation was going.

“Merlin, as you know, you’ve paid Camelot a great service in the battle of Camelot,” when the man seemed like he would say something, Arthur rose his hand, stopping him. “I know you’re about to say you did but your duty; but you were no Jedi, you were not assigned on any mission, you were no citizen of Camelot. You were just a boy, taken away from home, but that was ready to risk himself for us. We could not have won without you, and that is a debt I owned you.”

“The Jedi way is to serve,” reminded the padawan, and Arthur almost rolled his eyes.

“Yes. And Jedi are hard to reward when they can have no personal possessions. There was, in any case, little I could have given Mordred, or Morgana, or Master Gaius and Master Nimueh was far beyond my helping, then. But I _could_ do something for you, and so I did.”

For the first time since he had arrived, Arthur caught a small hint of understanding, a small hint of hope in Merlin’s eyes, and fear, too, that they would be dashed. Not wanting to keep him in suspense, the king continued.

“Two weeks after the Battle of Camelot, two of my emissaries arrived in Tattooine with a proposition that Kanen could not turn down. He was resistant, at first, because it would leave him without any slaves, and you know far better than I do how much it meant for his social standing, how much he valued it; but, in the end, he had to accept. They also reached another slave owner, with a similar proposition, and were readily attended.”

“Are you saying…?”

“I had both your mother and your friend Will set free — though I’ll never understand what you liked about the boy,” he confirmed, willing his face not to betray how wrong-footed he was now that it was time to own up to his actions, for if he was not ashamed of what he did, neither he was proud, and didn’t think it deserved the look of pure adoration that he was receiving now. “I’ve arranged for them to be settled in a village in Essetir — your mother’s choice, I understand. I imagine you may be angry with me for not saying it sooner…”

“Angry?” Merlin asked, disbelieving. “Angry? Arthur, what you’ve done…”

Words clearly failed him, and the king also didn’t know what he could say, so he remained silent, but it didn’t make him ready for Merlin’s next action. His eyes shining with unshod tears, he took a step ahead, throwing his arms around Arthur’s body, in a gesture completely unlike the young and conscious Jedi that he had met this morning, and much reminiscent of the child he had once been, but there was nothing childish about the tall lean body against his. Arthur needed a moment before he could react, his arms returning the gesture without much grace, acutely conscious of his naked chest pressed against the thin fabric of the sleeping garments Merlin had been wearing. An image glimpsed in his head, and he banished it as quickly as he could, but it still made his cheeks burn.

And yet, as the younger man stepped back, his smile so bright that it outshone the rising sun, Arthur was sure that it had all been worth it.

 

 

 

 


	7. Chapter 7

 

The one saving grace of the starfighter that Mordred had been given to use was that it was three times as fast as their usual transport.Still, it hardly seemed enough when he needed to spend almost a whole day inside cramped quarters, unable to stand. Starfighters were not meant for transport, but for battle in open space, and while the outer circle allowed it to jump to lightspeed and cross reasonable distances, it was not a travelling vehicle. One way or another, a Jedi did not complain of whatever he received. It had taken him almost a week to make his way from Coruscant to the Outter Rim, and they had only taken him as far as Rishi. From there, he had made to trust his own skills and the Force to trespass the Rishi Maze and approach the coordinates that Dex had given him.

 

The planet was exactly where it should have been, in spite of the archives’ lack of information. What he could see from space wasn’t very inviting either: huge green masses that spoke of large volumes of water and preciously few spots that indicated lands. It was not as if he had expected it to be welcoming — welcoming places hardly ever produced such potent or efficient weapons as the dart he now carried. Entering the atmosphere, Mordred could see he had not been mistaken: wild, savage seas seemed to dominate the landscape, and what he had believed to be lands seemed to be completely artificial.

 

Dex had given him enough specifications to lead him towards the Capital of this strange world, and he was not surprised to see it comprised of a cluster of elegant, oval shaped buildings and landing pads emerging straight from the ocean. It would have been a beautiful place in the daylight, with sunshine making it glow in the distance, but the skies were overcast, and rain seemed to pour with a particular vengeance.

 

Mordred landed in one of the assigned spots, and his I4 unit chirped over his shoulder.

 

“Don’t worry, I4 — you can just stay.”

 

The droid seemed happy that it wouldn’t have to brave the storm, and Mordred snorted, thinking he had indeed spent far too long with Merlin if he was giving astromechdroids the ability to _feel_. He would not, though, be as lucky as I4, and grabbing his cape, he pressed the button to open the ship’s cockpit. Standing up after such a long time would have been a pleasure, if the drops that immediately assaulted him hadn’t been so icy — or so heavy. Taking a deep breath, Mordred jumped out of the starfighter and into the wet ground, walking towards the glass doors that gave access to the actual city.

 

It was unlike anything other place that Mordred had seen before. There was nothing _natural_ about the city, but it was not the metal and the bright artificial lights that felt odd, but the complete lack of markings that gave it personality. Even Coruscant, so heavily populated for so long that new levels grew on top of the older ones, to the point the ground was but a fable told to scare younglings; made mostly of iron, steel and concrete, served around the clock by machines older than the Republic itself, pulsated with the life it carried. This place, on the other hand, was utterly devoid of any decoration, any marks of existence, as bereft and aseptic as a hospital. It was unsettling.

 

There was but the slightest stir in the Force, barely enough to detect that there were beings living here, so Mordred was not completely surprised when someone finally approached him. Lowering his hood, he observed the creature, who moved with undeniable grace. A small suggestion of breasts made it clear that it was a female, and while the shape was similar to that of a human, it was strangely elongated and absolutely hairless. Her legs, arms and neck were long and thin, and Mordred might not be particularly tall, but this graceful woman would have towered over Percival. Her eyes had no pupils, just huge dark blue irises, and when she blinked before talking him, her eyelids came from the sides of her eyes, instead of the top.

 

“Welcome to Tipoca, Master Jedi,” she said, her Galactic Standard as good as his own, and Mordred ran his hand through his face, trying to clear the excess of water that had been caught in his hair and beard before bowing slightly. Considering the quality fabric and the delicate workings in her vests, he didn’t imagine she would thank him for ruining it.

 

“Thank you,” he said, once he was back up. “I came for I wish to…”

 

“Of course,” the kaminoan interrupted him, something that might be a smile in her bloodless lips. “The Prime Minister has been warned of your arrival and is expecting you.”

 

He couldn’t help but raise an eyebrow at this, how could they have known…?

 

“Am I expected?” he asked, unnecessarily, but the woman seemed unfazed by his surprise.

 

“Oh, yes. We recognised the Jedi vehicle as soon as it came near our airspace. I should say the Prime Minister is anxious to meet you — it’s been such a long time, after all; and some even thought the Jedi would not return. We shouldn’t keep him waiting even longer.”

 

“Of course not,” Mordred agreed, his face smooth even though he had no inkling of the reason why they should be expecting someone from the Order.

 

Following her through the corridors just reinforced his impressions about Tipoca. Every wall was ice-white, apart from those that sported windows of exoglass, showing the stormy climate outside or inner parts of the city. They passed but a few residents, who politely inclined their heads towards them, but their steps made no noise against the pristine floor, and he heard no voices. He wondered, for a moment, if the people were simply reserved or natural telepaths. As if a second nature, Mordred’s mental barriers clung even tighter, making sure none would be able to imagine what went inside his head.

 

It was not a long walk until they reached their destination, but long enough for Mordred to feel tired of the seamless way each meter of the city resembled another. The Kaminoan that had been leading him knocked on a door before opening it. The inside of the room looked much like the outside, and, behind a desk so bright that it might be entirely made of light, sat a Kaminoan that openly smiled upon seeing them.

 

“I’m honoured to present the Prime Minister of Kamino, Lama-su,” she said, before turning towards her ruler, who was now standing. “And this is Jedi Master…?”

 

She left it in the air, as if just now she had realised that they had failed in making introductions before that moment.

 

“Mordred,” he completed, and she assented.

 

The Prime Minister offered his hand to shake, and Mordred took it but it was clear that the gesture felt odd for the kaminoans. He stored that knowledge in mind for future reference.

 

“Please, make yourself comfortable,” the politician pleaded, and with a gesture, two shell-shaped seats lowered from the ceiling. The Jedi accepted the offer at once, and once they were both in place, he seemed to remember they were not alone. “You’re dismissed, Taun We.”

 

The female bowed to both before leaving again, and Mordred wondered what, exactly, he had just stepped into.

 

“I trust you’ll enjoy your stay here, Master Jedi Mordred,” he said, a hint of pride in his voice. “We’re thrilled that you have arrived at the best part of the season.”

 

Mordred had no clue if they were not referring to the climate (and wondered, too, if that was the best, what would the worst look like) or some other particularity of their culture; but there it mattered not, for he had worked along with consulars long enough to know that courtesies should always be observed, even when one couldn’t quite understand them.

 

“You’re making me feel most welcome in Kamino.”

 

“I should hope so,” the minister said, with the closest thing to a sharp nod his species allowed. “Now, let’s talk business.” Such blunt change of subject did not surprise Mordred much after Dix’s warning that they were more friendly to those that could pay; and he wondered how much they’d need to pay for their cooperation in solving the mystery that had brought him there — and wondered, too, why should they be expecting him to arrive when the Order couldn’t even locate the planet in their archives. “I’m certain you’ll be delighted to hear that our forward two hundred thousand units are ready, with another million to be finished in two weeks, tops.”

 

“This is good news,” replied Mordred, though he could not wonder why the order would need so many _units_ of _anything_ coming from a race that specialised in cloning.

 

“You can guarantee to Master Meer-Dieth that we have every confidence that her order will be met on time and in full,” he continued, oblivious to the questions in Mordred’s head, but the name caught his attention.

 

“Sorry, you said Master…?”

 

“Master Meer-Dieth,” he repeated, seeming wary for the first time. “I trust she’s well and still one of the leading members of the Jedi Council…?”

 

Mordred remembered Master Meer-Dieth well, even though he could never be sure that the opposite was true. She had been elusive as summer breeze, seemingly to have the most tenuous grasp on the present, as it was the case of many Seers. More than anything, she had been in the back of his thoughts for a long while now, and hearing her name spoken out loud transported him back in time, to when he was merely a padawan, little knowing how little he had before his life — and so many others — were irrevocably changed. She had been undeniably talented, the closest to a match Morgana would have had, but he could not see her coming to this distant city.

 

“I’m sorry,” he said, his face contrite. “Master Meer-Dieth has passed away some time ago.”

 

“That is unfortunate,” the Prime Minister said, but there were no signs that the information affected him in any way. “My sincere condolences. I hope it does not mean that the Order no longer has interest in the project…?”

 

“No, not at all,” Mordred reassured him. “I am most interested in learning all about the development of the project during my visit.”

 

The kaminoan seemed to have been tranquilised by his words, the tension around his shoulders giving away before he rose in the fluid movement that seemed characteristic of their species.

 

“You must be looking forward to inspect it for yourself, then.”

 

“That’s why I’m here,” lied Mordred, standing as well and following him out of the room.

 

* * *

 

 

Sometimes Arthur wondered if there was a malicious part of his brain that led him to make his own life harder than it needed to be. Often he had thought it was the case, and few days he had had more reason to. He tried to clear his mind of it, as he allowed one of the protocol droids to help him with his armour. Droids were not highly regarded in Camelot, but not altogether uncommon; still, not even the Royal Palace had as many droids as the Isle of the Blessed. The king supposed it was part of its appeal, for it made the place far more private than anything that royalty had the chance to imagine; and droids did not have enough imagination to commit treason, so they were now safe. His refuge — though, it could also be his prison.

 

The metal’s weight against his body was welcome, a touch of normalcy in a universe gone insane. It was uncomfortable and chaffed against his tunic; making his skin raw, but he welcomed the feeling. The carefully linked chains of his chainmail clinked as he moved to allow his helper to close his greaves against his legs, and raised his arms for his plate to be fastened. It was an incredible protection, but also a futile one in a hurry, for no knight could put so much armour on by himself. Arthur let his hands slide into his gauntlets, flexing his fingers to test its malleability. He accepted his sword from the droid, sheathing it, and picked up his helmet, walking out.

 

It was true that the Isle of the Blessed had been built more as a retreat than as a military fortress, but it didn’t preclude it from being ready to attend to their needs. One of the many areas in the bailey had clearly been thought as a place for entertainment, for around the tiltyard stands had been built in marble,  complete with a royal box in the right side and a quintain in the left side of it. It had been long since Arthur had tried his hand at jousting, which he had greatly enjoyed as a teenager, but he had more pressing concerns. In times of peace, in Albion, war became a game that knights and lords played, in tournaments and championships that were a show of skill and bravery — but also mostly safe. What loomed in the horizon was true war, with none of the niceties and much more brutality than their chivalric games. He did not need to refine his skills, he needed to be ready to defend his life against the most formidable foes.

 

Merlin, he could see now, was already in the arena. Although he had abandoned his dark brown cape, just as Arthur hadn’t bothered with his red one, the rest of his garb was completely Jedi. His tunic had the same colour as the discarded cape in the stands, but the undertunic, tabards and obi were black — an unusual choice. He seemed incredibly vulnerable against Arthur’s metal encasing, but he knew this to be a false impression. The heavy armour would make him slow, and he was already slower than the padawan to begin with. He also seemed more at ease than Arthur could have expected the gentle boy he once met in the desert to be when so close to combat.

 

He did not bother with words, bowing towards Merlin, who answered in kind. Firming his feet on the ground, he unsheathed his sword, readying himself for the fight. After a second, he heard the distinctive sound of a lightsaber being turned on. Even against the harsh light of the sun, the blade shone in emerald green. The younger man moved his saber until it was in front of his face, and then to back to his side, signalling he was ready, but Arthur knew better than to attack. He had never duelled Merlin, but his mind still could remember very well his sister’s elegance, Mordred’s skill and Nimueh’s deadly grace and he doubted him to be any less able.

 

Arthur was not expecting the attack when it came. It seemed to him far too fast — with a effortless jump he had closed the distance between them, his lightsaber coming down towards the king’s shoulder. He didn’t even know how his own sword had come to meet the blow, but it did not matter. His instincts held true as Merlin moved slightly back before trying again, on a stab this time, but he parried it easily. His lips hardly pressed, the padawan stepped back again, trying to circle around the older man, but Arthur was expecting it. The lightsaber rose back, looking for an opening, and it was once again rebuked by the sword. Merlin tried one, two, three more times before taking three steps back and watching him.

 

They walked in a circle, their steps perfectly in sync as they measured one another. Arthur imagined the padawan was holding something back, but it was a smart thing to do when the opponent was unknown. He waited, patiently, because he had no reason to attack first, and this time he was ready for Merlin’s jump, the saber coming down hard, as if to hurt his legs and the counter-blow was strong enough to make the Jedi loose balance. For the first time Arthur really considered that, although his armour made him slower, it also made him heavier, something he _could_ use in his favour. Merlin seemed to have noticed the exact same thing, and was starting to move backwards when Arthur attacked.

 

He had chosen the spot well for his onslaught. The padawan was fast, defending each of his blows, his arms seeming to move before Arthur could, and his feet never still for long enough as to give the king the advantage. Still, he was hardly pressed by the attacks and kept moving backwards to avoid the cortosi sword. It took him a moment too long to realise his mistake as his back hit the long pole that divided the tiltyard in two sections. Arthur felt a frisson of feral joy as he moved forward, ready to win the round and claim his prize, but as his sword came down, it met nothing but the metal of the arena in a shower of sparks.

 

It took him a second to find his opponent, who was grinning cheekily at him from where he had perched himself on the top of the pole. He could only blink, because it seemed impossibly thing for someone to keep balance on so easily, but Merlin was not troubled. He stood on it with all the grace of a circus artist, his lightsaber still ready. Arthur lunged for his legs, annoyed at his movement, but the padawan just did a simple sommersault and landed further away from him, keeping safe.

 

“So, you’re giving up? Staying away?” taunted the king.

 

He did not expect Merlin’s response, for he had never seen anything like it: the boy simply threw his lightsaber in Arthur’s direction, but it was soon clear that it wasn’t falling — instead, it came towards him as sure as a well aimed shot. It was not difficult to parry, and he put all his strength in the blow, aiming to throw it away for if the padawan was disarmed, however briefly, he would have the round. The saber wobbled wildly at it for a moment, before returning straight to its master’s hand.

 

“A lightsaber is not an arrow, Merlin,” he called, but he was smiling too at how unexpected it had been.

 

“Apologies, sire,” he answered back, not sounding even a little bit sorry. “I figured I could give you some space to catch your breath.”

 

“Catch my breath!” Arthur exclaimed, torn between amusement and shock. “I’ll show you what is to not be able to catch a breath!”

 

This time, he let go of the reservations he hadn’t realised he had, moving in to attack, uncaring if he was using force. It was clear that the younger man was good enough to avoid any substantial harm, and he could just immerse himself in the joy of fighting. He cut, and parried, and together they moved in a deadly dance, their blades meeting, parting and meeting again in flashes. Merlin was indeed fast, and had a good number of acrobatics to help him get away of the trickiest situations, but Arthur was larger, stronger and more experienced, it was obvious he would eventually prevail.

 

It was exhilarating, to be able to duel against someone who was so evenly matched with him. Merlin stabbed, and twirled, going for a stab in the opposite side, but Arthur defended both. They were now both grinning madly at each other, and at such close distance, Arthur didn’t even register the green and silver shining between them, because the challenging spark in the other man’s eyes was surety enough that they’d continue the battle for a while. They moved again in tandem, walking fast through the ground as they tried to maintain the engagement of their blades, and they had almost done a complete lap around the ground when Arthur saw an opening he could take advantage of and went for it.

 

Merlin was utterly unprepared for it, too, so when Arthur’s feet connected to his thigh, forcing him down, completely lost his footing and, for the first time in the fight, could not react in time to avoid falling on the hard ground, his lightsaber flying far away. The king stepped forward, knowing it was but a small moment he had before he recovered, but the padawan didn’t even try to rise, entangling his long legs against Arthur’s and bringing him to the ground, upon him. The impact left them both breathless for a second, but knowing he had _not_ lost his weapon, and now he used it, pressing the tip against Merlin’s ribs without even bothering to move.

 

“I win,” he declared, finally.

 

Under him Merlin seemed bewildered, his eyes huge and surprised, his cheekbones stained with red because of the mixture of sun, embarrassment and exertion, and his slightly parted lips called to Arthur’s eyes as soon as a siren calls to pirates. He saw the smug smile forming and something dangerous flashing in his eyes, but it was too late now, because Merlin’s free left arm had managed to procure what he needed. He felt the warmth against his unprotected neck before he even saw the emerald green blade that was now so close to his skin.

 

“I’d say it’s a draw,” was the padawan’s answer, and Arthur threw his head back and laughed.

 

“Very well, I’ll grant it to you — a draw.”

 

He knew he should move, but it was easier said than done, because the part of his brain that loved making everything harder than it needed to be was in full action now, registering Merlin’s messed hair, the tentative way in which his teeth caught his lower lip as he smiled back, the way his eyes shone at him, the firmness of the muscles that allowed him to bear Arthur’s weight, their legs still intertwined. It was so oddly intimate, far more than it was supposed to be. Unbidden, his mind flashed back to their earlier encounter, and now it seemed much harder to banish the sort of thoughts he knew he should not have for a Jedi, for someone that had barely been more than a boy when he first met. Merlin’s eyebrow rose in a question, and he was gratified that at least his traitorous thoughts were kept secret.

 

Locking his impulses firmly away, he rolled off Merlin’s body, letting himself rest against the dusty ground of the quintain, looking up to the sky and trying to regain his breath. Merlin also didn’t move, but his breathing seemed perfectly controlled.

 

“It was fun — we should do this more often,” the younger main said.

 

Arthur had a legitimate reason for wanting to be ready to go against someone with Jedi training, if his suspicious proved true — and still, he knew it was a bad idea. In his life and mind, fighting without a grievance had always been part of his routine; and yet, his instincts now reacted as if it was some twisted form of foreplay. He _meant_ to say no, his excuses were already lining up in his brain, but his mouth seemed to have a mind of its own.

 

“Definitely.”

 

* * *

 

 

For almost a hundred years, Taliesin had served the Jedi Order — as a youngling, taken away from his family; as a padawan, a knight, a master. In it, he had built his own family, his sense of self, his understanding and his perceptions. All his values, all his knowledge, all his control of the gifts he was granted were dependent on their structure; and a blow to it felt like a blow to his very soul. He had been heartbroken when Master Peter had left the flock; he had again and again given him the benefit of the doubt.

 

So, upon hearing suspicions of Count Peter’s lack of innocence from the mouth of Master Grettir himself, something had broken inside him, irretrievably.

 

Another man, a _lesser_ man, might have tried to pry the former Jedi secrets from the veil of time; but that would be _using_ the Force, making it serve _him_ instead of allowing the Force to make him its servant. He was _not_ such a man. Had he been such a man, he would never have been granted the title of Jedi. The elderly master now wondered if they should have avoided naming as one a pupil that had once been one of their greatest prides: a shrewd political mind, an undeniable talent for subtlety and a firm grasp on combat.

 

They had come to him for answer, and he hadn’t had any. It was not an experience he was used to having: he had been quite young when he had been assigned to the Seers, and for half a century, he had been responsible for the other ones in the other — preciously few; for no more than one youngling in every couple generations was considered to have so much talent as to be assigned to their service. His job was to know before there _was_ anything to know, but there had been little warning of Peter’s defection and even less than a suggestion of the treason in his heart.

 

Because if he _was_ indeed responsible for erasing information from the Archives, that could not be called anything less than a betrayal. It had been pure chance that they had noticed the absence of one small unimportant planet; and what else could he have removed?

 

A Jedi did not worry, though, and did not suffer from heavy hearts. He had put it all aside and returned to his duties once the meeting had ended.

 

Now, though, it all came back to him upon seeing Master Aglain, Master Gaius and Master Deaton entering the Tower of Knowledge. With a heavy sight, he rose from where he had been meditating, coming to meet them.

 

“Can I help you, Masters?”

 

“I fear we do not bring good news, old friend,” said Master Aglain, the pincers in his lower face moving slowly.

 

“I can’t say I didn’t hope for some — but hoping and expecting are very different things.”

 

They all exchanged a consternated look at this, for it had been the truth they had been living with for a long time now, long enough that the conspicuous absence of Master Grettir felt like an even worse omen than it should.

 

“I take that this visit is related to the missing data.”

 

Master Deaton nodded slowly, the lines of expression in his face far more pronounced than usual.

 

“So Master Peter _was_ responsible for it?” he asked, for mere desire of confirmation, and was incredibly surprised by the answer he received.

 

“He was not,” granted Deaton, but instead there was something that spoke of bigger injuries and not relief. “We were able to identify who was responsible for it, though.”

 

None of them would meet his eyes. In a hundred years, he had long learnt that Jedi were not infallible, but that sort of reluctance was still at odds with the way they had been raised.

 

“Well, then, who was it?” he asked, a small flare of impatience lightening up.

 

They continued to hesitate for a moment, before Master Gaius took control of the situation.

 

“Taliesin, my friend…” but his peaceful tone of voice was enough to make him guess.

 

“One of mine?”

 

“Master Meer-Dieth,” confirmed Deaton, and suddenly Taliesin felt every and each one of his one hundred and three years.

 

He took a step back, sitting down on the edge of the fountain that decorated the tower’s atrium.

 

“Meer-Dieth…” he whispered, remembering the seer they had lost almost a full decade ago.

 

Meer-Dieth had been undeniably talented, but he had always felt he had failed her. Her control on her gift was even more precarious than that of the other seers, and nothing he had done had truly helped. For some time, she seemed to be ready to bloom, like a flower, ready to fully embrace and use that which the Force had seen fit to give her; but that promise of wisdom and power hat withered, like so many others, when the Trade Federation decided to block Camelot’s skies. She had been chosen for the Council but for a season, and he had been so proud — yet, it had sapped her strength, her control, leaving her raw. Her behaviour grew even more erratic once those dramatic events unfolded, and she had removed herself from the Temple life, a reclusion of her own choosing. Back then, Taliesin had not been concerned — as caterpillars, Jedi were known to need a period of seclusion before they broke out of their chrysalis — and with the intense concern towards their newest charge, Meer-Dieth had been left to the corner of his mind. It seemed like it had been just a few moments after Master Nimueh’s demise and Master Peter’s abandonment, she had grown feverish, lost in the waters of time, her words spilling out of control and her body convulsing until it could take no more. He had felt sorry for the loss it meant for the Order, ashamed of his own lack of sight, but never, even for a moment, he had allowed himself to feel saddened by it until now.

 

The three other Jedi gave him time to come to terms with it, and it was him who broke the silence.

 

“When… When did she do this?”

 

Master Deaton, who has often been called the mainstay of the Order, a man who never knew doubt and in whose hands they had placed their safety seems strangely a loss, shrugging and shaking his head at once.

 

“Just a few weeks before…”

 

“A few weeks after the Battle of Camelot,” Master Gaius seems now the surer of the three, a man far too used to the harsh truths of the bargaining table. “We were wondering if there was anything — anything — from her last months — anything that might shed light into it.”

 

“We normally wouldn’t ask, but we _know_ you seers keep recordings of everything… If there is anything in it that helps this make sense…”

 

Taliesin shook his head, for he could recall nothing of the sort, shutting out Master Aglain’s peaceful tone.

 

“Whenever we have something that might be of use to the Order, we always are forthcoming with the information.”

 

“And no one questions your loyalty, Master,” replied Deaton, once again firm. “But some things might have been overlook then, and… Do not forget that we sent one of ours to that planet. If there is something about it that Mordred should be warned about…”

 

“What I really wonder, Master Deaton, is what Master Meer-Dieth _didn’t_ want us to know,” completed Gaius, sombrely, and for the second time in his life, Master Taliesin had nothing he could say.

 

* * *

 

 

Whatever Mordred had expected to find upon hearing about the _project_ that had been requested by the late Master, nothing would have him prepared for the reality of it. Outside of Tipoca’s protective dome, a rainstorm seemed to ravage the patio, and yet, the thousands of beings walking in formation on it were absolutely indifferent to the harsh climate. As one, they marched, being hailed by voices he could not hear upon different formations. They had no individuality,  all sporting the same white armourplast uniform, their faces hidden by masks without any clear openings, their eyes pitch-black and sightless under him. The pride and joy of the Prime Minister upon presenting them could not be more obvious, by contrast.

 

“A wonder, aren’t they?”

 

There could have been no way to deny it, because it _was_ fantastic that he should come to a forgotten, hidden planet to find in it an army in the Republic’s moment of greatest need. He had but a second to wonder what had led the Seer to request such a thing, but they were already moving away, towards, leading him to a different section of their training facilities.  A curve led them towards the next window, overlooking a large eating area. Underneath them, Mordred could see the same man a hundred times, in the same clothes and the same gestures, getting their dinner. He had known, of course, that they were clones, but it still daunted him to see them like it. Wearing uniform, they could have been _people_. Sitting like this, these humans looked like a parody of humanity, a mockery of humanity, a mass of one. Morgana’s words came back to him, unbidden. “An army of one man,” indeed, would be a fit description of what he now saw; the same man, repeated again and again to the last detail. Short, black straight hair, cropped close to their skulls. Brown, unremarkable eyes, a straight nose, a thin mouth. There were hundreds of them, but not a single shade of their skin was different, all with a slight tan and mildly broad shoulders that spoke of a life of activity. The model had not been perfect, and even the incongruous unevenness of his chin was repeated over and over without a single difference. Mordred wondered if those soldiers had ever learnt how to laugh.

 

The Prime Minister was hungrily accompanying his look, and he could only hope he could hide his dismay at seeing such a sight under the dispassionate look of a Jedi.

 

“We have modified the original genetic structure, of course, accelerate their growth; It would be quite impossible to meet the order that the Council placed without it — not to mention how it’d take a life time to grow each batch, and the expenses…”

 

“Naturally,” he answered, though it was the last word that should be used to describe any of it. “Any more… modifications?”

 

 “Oh, we have made them… More biddable. The results were incredibly favourable, for they are completely obedient, and do not question orders. They still retain the creativity and the ability to adapt of the original host, but they will not rebel.”

 

The comment made him look towards the kaminoan, his curiosity sparking.

 

“Who _was_ this original host?”

 

The politician seemed to be expecting the question, for his reply came quickly.

 

“A bounty hunter — his name’s Raphael,” he leaned his head sideways, considering something before continuing. “He was hand picked by your envoys. We, of course, felt that a Jedi would have been the perfect choice, but Master Meer-Dieth disagreed.”

 

Mordred couldn’t avoid a small shudder at the thought of a Jedi being replicated like this. It was bad enough — mad enough — that they had done so with a man whose very living depended on his ability of claiming lives; how much worse would if be if they had a Jedi for a model. He wondered, from a absolutely impersonal and scientific point of view, if such clones would be able to tap into the Force, but was glad his question would never be answered. He was not sure that the kaminoans could fully grasp the challenges that a Jedi matrix would have presented for their _project_. Still was sure, almost at once, that he would soon find more about the man that had made him look for Kamino in the first place.

 

“Would you happen to know where this bounty hunter is now?”

 

The prime minister seemed mildly amused that he’d need to ask.

 

“Well, after every few hundred thousands of clones, the genetic pattern starts to fade; for a project this size — it demands fresh supplies of genetic material often enough that we decided it’d be safer to keep him here. He has been granted apartments in Tipoca, and although he comes and goes as he pleases, I’d say this is where he calls home.”

 

 

The Jedi nodded at it, but as he was led towards the next section, the prime minister continued to speak.

 

“Do not worry, Master Jedi, for he was considerably compensated for his service. We also allowed him his pick of our other technologies, and it has increased his previously already high efficiency. It was, of course, the reason he was selected.”

 

“Would if be possible for me to meet this bounty hunter?”

 

“I can be arranged easily,” agreed the Prime Minister.

 

Coming down some stairs, Mordred was gestured towards a window that overlooked a huge classroom. In it, a hundred or so boys — not much younger than Merlin had been when they first met — were sitting in front of terminals, clearly studying.

 

“This batch was made around five years ago,” Lama Su informed. “As you can see, the accelerated growth helps immensely. The units you saw on the parade grounds are our original ones — two hundred thousand. They were started as soon as the order was placed, around ten years ago now, and they’re already mature and ready to serve.”

 

Serve. Mordred had always been happy and proud to serve the Light, the Republic and the Order, but in this case, the words seemed like a mockery of what he did. It was not the free given service of knights, but something much more similar to slavery. Those children were being bred like cattle, treated like cattle, to live and die while others lived on, comfortably. He wondered, for a moment, what would King Arthur think of the idea, and he doubted he’d approve of it. He had found an army, and soldiers, but while it breathed and lived, they were no different from droids; bound to obey and without a purpose of their own. Lama Su led him through a portal and into another room, and racks of glass spheres seemed to float in the bright immensity of the room. He needed a moment to identify what was inside of it, and his stomach lurched uncomfortably upon realising it held embryos.

 

To the Force, every single life was sacred. Every single life was unique. Now _this_ was a mockery of conception, the holiness of life turned into a industrial line, organised by how close they were to being ready to leave their glass cages and switch them for invisible fetters. He breathed in, deeply, trying to centre himself, to feel the living Force pulsating through him and through the place, but even _that_ seemed strangely muted in the room.

 

Mordred fought to keep his control, and preceded the kaminoan out of the room.

 

“It is… impressive,” he said, because it _was_ impressive even if it was far from admirable.

 

“We had hoped you’d be pleased,” he agreed, with a slight smile. “You’ll find they are superior to droids in every aspect, they can, after all, think and act for themselves when needed.”

 

“Can they?” Mordred asked, and he didn’t even try to hide the mockery underneath his tone. “Can they think for themselves, Prime Minister?”

 

“As I said, they retain the creativity of their original…”

 

“Creativity can be programmed,” discarded Mordred, without waiting for the empty reassurances. “Specially in a soldier — it is but an ability of finding patterns in random conditions and exploiting them. I wonder, though, if they are capable of abstract thinking, if they are able to fully understand, judge, feel. I see humans —”

 

“Clones,” tried the Prime Minister, but he was having none of that.

 

“ _Humans_ bred for battle, bred for obedience, bred for acceptance. I see _people_ without a _choice_ , being _forced_ to obey regardless of their own perceptions. You call it serving, but it is far too close to slavery when one has never known anything but _duty_.”

 

Mordred hadn’t known, until then, that kaminoans _could_ frown, but there was no other way to describe the expression on Lama Su’s face.

 

“And how’s that different, Master Jedi, is this from your own service?”

 

The words caught him off guard, and he felt the urge to explain — to show — how _different_ it was, the calling of the Force and the _need_ for restrains, but, in the end, he could not. He could not hope to be understood by the Kaminoan any more than the kaminoan could understand him. Mordred was shocked, too, to realise just how close he had been to trade his inner peace for righteous anger. It was disturbing how much he relied on his ability to feel the Force to keep his balance.

 

“Apologies, Prime Minister,” he said, finally. “I did not mean to offend. It is clear that you’ve done us a great service. I beg you understand there will be some… concerns, one way or another.”

 

“It is to be expected,” the politician brushed it off. “I take no offence in questions aimed at making our services better — we can sometimes forget, isolated as we are, how delicate are some of the perceptions in the Republic.”

 

Mordred gave him a small nod, because he would not dismiss the opening he was giving, the opportunity to save face. _This_ was why guardians were not generally sent alone to deal with such matters; even the Jedi training could give in to dismay, if the issue was dear enough, and they lacked a more appropriate training to deal with the subterfuge and subtleties of political games. It was utterly unlike him to burst out in such a manner, and he wondered if he had now spent so long around his padawan that he had picked up the worst of his habits. With a careful movement of his head, he got ready to thread in thin ice, for the balance between gaining information and pretending he already had it was a precarious one, which would have been better handled by a sentinel — if there were any to spare.

 

“Pardon me, Prime Minister, but I hope you can indulge my curiosity for a moment,” he said, knowing that in spite of whatever differences culture brought, the chance to gossip was hardly ever passed up. “I was on a mission nearby before the Order directed me here, and I was told only to check on the progress of the project — no one saw fit to inform me what it was about,” Mordred gave the kaminoan a sardonic smile, for even if it wasn’t the case at the moment, it had been a predicament he had found himself in often enough. The council could be incredibly tight lipped. “So, tell me: when Master Meer-Dieth first contacted you, did she make it clear what the order was for?”

 

“It is my understanding that Master Meer-Dieth was a Seer in the Jedi Order?” the politician asked, and Mordred confirmed it with a nod. “And one that has proved to be very good. We were baffled, then, that she would be ordering an army for the Republic, but right she was about it being needed!”

 

“The Republic?” Mordred repeated, astonished.

 

It made little to no sense to him that Master Meer-Dieth would have ordered a clone army ten years prior, though he did not doubt she had had her warnings. And yet, they were known to be a reclusive bunch, seers, and preferred to merely relay their knowledge and let others decide how to best act about them — Morgana notwithstanding. Even through his hazy memories, he did not picture her rebelling, for she had been the shiest of creatures. Still, here they were, a decade later, reaping the fruit of her work. She must have known, even then, what Master Peter’s defection would lead to. Mordred wondered if she had never shared her concerns with the Council or if they had dismissed her notions — to their own loss.

 

Another thing that bothered him was that she would have chosen as a template a man that would try to kill King Arthur, whose proposal was, of course, not for a united Republic Army, but that sought to defend them the same way. Had it been deliberate, or a simple coincidence? He would likely never know.

 

“Yes,” the Prime Minister was continuing, pride lacing his voice. “The people of Kamino are glad that they can of help to the Republic, as we are very much against his secessionist movement. Not that we disagree that the Republic needs political reforms, but the way he has gone around to do it…”

 

Their species didn’t have much of a nose to speak of, and yet, it seemed to wrinkle in distaste of the said actions.

 

“We are gratified to have your support and cooperation in that matter,” Mordred assured him, and the kaminoan smiled. “But now I must report back to the Council, let them know that everything is going according to plan.”

 

“Certainly. The initial units are ready to be deployed as soon as the Senate approves the army’s creation, with another five hundred thousand to be made ready in less than a fortnight.”

 

“This is good news,” the Jedi answered, and even if he personally didn’t think a clone army was the best solution, he appreciated that, if it came to war, they would be ready to defend the Republic. “About the bounty hunter…”

 

“I’ll arrange for you two to meet first thing next morning,” promised the prime minister. “Now, you must be eager to talk to your peers and rest — I’ll make sure accommodations are made ready before you’re done with your report.”

 

Years of practice had taught Mordred to recognise a dismissal, and taking the words for what they were, he bowed and left the room.

 

* * *

 

 

Stars were still shining on the night sky when Merlin shot up from his bed with a strangled cry. Blinking, he looked at his surroundings, initially at loss — there was nothing familiar about the large state bed and the elaborated hangings around it. No, his life was lead in much simpler fashion: a simple, single cot; mostly bare walls and unremarkable coverlets. There had been next to nothing on their Tattooine place, and there was no place for luxury in the Jedi Temple in Coruscant. After a few moments, he finally recognised Camelot’s distinctive style that permeated the bedroom.

 

Pushing away his covers, he put his feet on the cold marble ground. His body was covered in sweat, and still it seemed to burn, so he discarded his shirt, walking out to the balcony. The cold night air kissed his skin, making him shiver, but after one more nightmare about the scorching suns of the planet he had lived most of his life and his mother’s suffering under it, it felt like a blessing. His conversation with Arthur and the king’s confession about the arrangements he had made to guarantee his mother and childhood friend’s safety, he had expected the nightmares to end. He had almost convinced himself that it had been a failure in his own ability to abdicate and keep away from the tension that seemed to wrap the whole of the Republic that had reawaken his old fears and brought them about. Just a natural, human, reaction to stress.

 

Now, he was no longer so sure.

 

He had had these nightmares before, but never as vividly as his latest one. In many ways, it was as if the time they had now spent on Camelot was the dream, for everything about the Isle of the Blessed was idyllic, perhaps even more so under the light of the setting moon and the first purple streaks that crossed the sky announced the coming of a new day. Reality, in his experience, as far starker and more barren than _this_. Logic told him that there was no reason for him to believe his mother was suffering, but instinct told him otherwise, and his instincts were rarely wrong.

 

Breathing out, he allowed himself to sink in the Force. He was not experience in discerning truth from lies in visions and dreams, not like Morgana or even an average consular, but he knew well enough what he was looking for. What Merlin lacked in technique he made up for in sheer willpower, and it didn’t take him long to be able to grasp at the threads of his mother’s life. For the Force, space and time were meaningless, and he could recognise the traces of her spirit as easily as if they had been together the day before, and as if they were indeed close by.

 

 The reason why Jedi insisted in distancing younglings from their parents was that, for a force sensitive, it was far too easy to create a bond of empathy that might hinder them in their new life, but Merlin had spent far too long with his mother, and far too untrained. He _knew_ it was supposed to be impossible — to create such a bond with someone who was not force sensitive, but impossible seemed to be the theme of his life. He knew, too, how to handle such connections, because this was considered an essential part of the training, the link between master and padawan that allowed both to flourish in working together. What he felt, then, was nothing like his steady and peaceful — if intense — bond with Mordred. There was a sharp note of danger, and a intense current of pain. His mother, normally so comforting and luminous, seemed to be shrouded in mists, sinking in darkness, surrendering to torture. Her heartbeat was strong, but instead of health, it spoke of despair, so intense and so close that he gasped at it.

 

He had not realised how completely submersed to it he had been, for while he was communing with the Force, he had completely missed that he was no longer alone. Even with his eyes open, now, and making an effort to part himself, he could feel in his own skin the suffering his mother was being submitted to. He balked at turning around, not wanting the king to see how badly shaken he was, but something gave away that he was no longer in deep meditation.

 

“You know, falling asleep outside and on the cold is known to lead to nightmares.”

 

It was clear that Arthur had hoped that his teasing would be enough to push his mind away, and had he truly been dreaming, it might have been. After such search, however, it fell flat.

 

“I was not sleeping.”

 

For a while, neither said a word. Merlin was aware that the king was watching him closely, and felt extremely aware of his partial nakedness, but even the thrill he might once have felt about it — even the things he might have wondered if were in the king’s mind — seemed to have faded under the dire warning he had received in the Force.

 

“I was searching for my mother in the Force,” he finally told Arthur. He partially expected to be reassured, but something in his tone must have given him away, because he did not do so.

 

“And what did you find?”

 

He shook his head slightly, for it was difficult to put into words. It was unlike anything he had felt before, and his vision had not been clear enough to access the sources. All he knew was that there was something deeply unnatural about her pain.

 

“She’s suffering,” he confided, finally. “Dying.”

 

“I’m sorry,” the king offered, his voice soft, and it made something spark inside Merlin.

 

“No!” He exclaimed, turning towards the other man because he clearly had failed at expressing himself. “This is _not_ illness or the cycle of life, Arthur. This is… Something else. An attack. What I feel is _torture_ , not… Not _right_.”

 

Arthur’s mouth was set in a grim line, but other than that, he had no way of knowing if the king had understood him — or even believed his words. Even if he did, there was nothing much he _could_ do.

 

“Would it ease your mind if we made contact with her?” the king asked, finally, and Merlin was surprised for the idea had never even crossed his head. Knowing that his mother had been living in Essetir and realising that he might be able to simply put in a holocall were two distinct things.

 

“Could you do that?” he asked, not daring to hope — but then again, Arthur had never failed him.

 

“Give me a few hours,” answered Arthur, crossing his arms against his naked chest. “I’ll hail Gwen in a secure line, shouldn’t be difficult to connect to the village. You can speak to her yourself, then, and make sure she’s alright.

 

Merlin wanted to tell him that he was _positive_ she was not, that thinking otherwise was nothing but foolish hope. However, the king had not waited for his answer, walking back into his chambers and living the Jedi alone with his thoughts. On the other hand, it was not as if he _could_ just leave and look for her, for he was not even sure where he would start.

 

The next few hours were some of the longest in Merlin’s life. Patience, Mordred was always telling him, was a virtue he needed to work on and never he had felt it so keenly. Out of habit, Merlin went through his daily rituals — washing his face, putting his Jedi vests, drilling movements with his lightsaber against the air. He did not meditate, though, for he feared what he would find in the Force if he immersed himself in it again. His heart accelerated when Arthur called him inside.

 

They watched together as the holocall rang, seeming as if eternity passed between one pulse and the next. Arthur moved away, both to give him some privacy and to avoid being caught on the camera. On the forth time, a young woman showed up on the small circular device.

 

“Ealdor office, Margery speaking.”

 

“I have urgent need to talk with one of the villagers,” he started, not even realising his lack of courtesy. “A woman, not yet in her fifties. She’s called Hunith. Tell her her son needs to speak with her.”

 

It was clear that the attendant was used to less than polished manners, but there were deep lines in her forehead.

 

“Hunith you say…?” she looked at someone outside of their vision, before continuing. “Give me a few minutes.”

 

The sound of his blood rushing fast through his veins might have made him deaf, but he could not find peace while he waited for her to return. All he needed was proof that his instincts were wrong, and until it came, he found it impossible to stick to his training. He was surprised but not shocked when someone else came into view.

 

Ten years had passed, but he would have recognised Will anywhere. He was taller and clearly his shoulders were broader. His skin spoke of time spent under the sun, and his cheeks said that famine was something he might as well have forgotten. Will had been a carefree youth; moody but quick to laugh, and never had Merlin seen him look so grave and so desperate. His heart plummeted even before he spoke.

 

“Merlin!” He said, and there was urgency is his voice. “Thank the Gods you’ve called!”

 

“What happened, Will?” he asked, and his friend didn’t even blink at his prior knowledge.

 

“They broke in during the night — we heard nothing. Everything was left in place, and we don’t understand, but — they’ve taken her.”

 

“Who is _they_?” he knew his voice was sharp, but now that he had proof, his mind had turned it all into a mission. “Do you have any clues of where or why?”

 

“Some weirdos, three of them.” Will answered, shaking his head. “At first, we thought they were some of _your_ people but — clearly not. They just showed up one day, asking a few random questions, and they said they were looking for something around these parts, so we left them alone. No one wants to cross the Jedi, and they carried lightsabers, but — a couple of days later, they were gone, and Hunith as well.”

 

“When was that?” he asked, his mind making calculations, even if he knew that, whomever these people were, they could be almost anywhere in the galaxy by now.

 

“Four — no, five days ago.”

 

Merlin felt a pang in his stomach at that. He had been so close, and yet…

 

“The only thing they left was this,” Will continued, showing him a medal. “Does it mean anything to you?”

 

It was made of some dark grey metal, and the engravings on it showed a castle with a single tower. Instead of a roof, though, it showed was crowned by fire. Merlin had never seen anything like it.

 

“Idirsholas,” Arthur said, having gotten closer as soon as Merlin’s misgivings were confirmed, and he now seemed to have forgotten he was supposed to be out of sight. “That’s the sigil of Idirsholas.”

 

Will’s mouth twisted, in something between displeasure, contempt and humour.

 

“You _still_ haven’t gotten rid of that prat?”

 

Merlin ignored his old friend, turning towards Arthur.

 

“What _is_ Idirsholas?”

 

“It was a castle, here in Camelot — abandoned long ago. Their lords rebelled one time to many and my great-great-great-grandfather razed the place down, but the rubble and the tower still remain. Their last long vowed he’d get his revenge, and that Camelot should fear the day that the fires of Idirsholas shone again. It came to naught, of course.”

 

Merlin couldn’t help but frown, because it made no sense. Why would someone steal his mother away in the middle of the night and bring her to Camelot? And yet, he knew, as sure as the movement of the stars, that this was where his mother was.

 

“Camelot, you say?” he repeated. “How far away?”

 

“Are you going there to get her?” asked Will, and Merlin’s head turned sharply towards him.

 

“What else do you think I would do?”

 

“No complaints here,” the man said, raising his hands, and the padawan’s eyes went back towards the king.

 

“Two days south on horseback, less than that on speeders, if you can find a track. Luckily, I can.”

 

“You’re _not_ coming,” Merlin said, his patience wearing thin. “You’re supposed to stay here. Safe.”

 

“And _you_ are supposed to guard me,” he answered, sharply.

 

“I know I’m disobeying orders, and I might even be kicked from the Order for it, but _I don’t care_. I’m sorry I must leave you — but I can’t just — she’s _in pain_ , and this is _my mother_ , would you let your father stay in pain?”

 

“I’m _not_ suggesting you don’t go, you dolt!” Arthur’s voice was tinted with impatient, clearly not in the mood for disagreements. “But I won’t let you go alone, either!”

 

“A Jedi can…” he started, only to be interrupted.

 

“Do it by himself, I know, just as you know I need no nanny. You _still_ need someone that knows the area, someone that can take you there as quickly as you can get. And I know you’re very good, but if they’re carrying lightsabers, you’ll be hard-pressed against three.”

 

Merlin stopped, unsure of what to do, and both men looked at him, their arms crossed, as if waiting for him to agree.

 

“It’s a terrible idea…” he started, and Arthur’s face looked suddenly menacing.

 

“Have you forgotten you cannot leave unless I open the doors for you? You’re _not_ going by yourself, Merlin. You’re taking me with you or not going _at all_.”

 

“Just take the prat!” Urged Will, because he clearly was just as worried as Merlin was.

 

“If you die on me…” he warned the king, who just gave him a feral grin.

 

“I wouldn’t dream of it,” he answered, and Merlin could only hope he would be in time.


	8. Chapter 8

 

In the almost eighty years of his life, Master Gaius had discovered there was a particular smell to bad news. He had also learnt that they hardly ever came alone, and that whenever one trouble started, another would soon follow. And in the last year and a half, they seemed to be growing in size, snowballing out of their control. Jedi were taught to adapt and to allow the Force to guide them, but this felt not like a progression, but like a push down a very sharp hill. Finding out that it might have started so long ago had not helped.

 

If anyone had told him that Master Peter had decided to erase data from the archive, he wouldn’t have doubted them. He had known far too well the rebellious nature of his colleague and had seen first hand how it reflected in those he trained. Had it been said of his once padawan, he would not have even blinked, for Nimueh had threaded a dangerous path, always dipping her feet on grey waters. Master Meer-Dieth, on the other hand, had been a surprise.

 

It showed, too, how little they had heeded her — how little they had noticed her, as a whole. Ten years, and not a single person had thought to check for her last days; none had considered if that final, delirious, plunge into the Force had any underlying reasons. She had been a shadow in the wall, even when warning them of things that came to be. Gaius closed his eyes for a moment, hoping she had find peace and understanding in the Force that had eluded her in life. When he opened them up again, nothing had changed.

 

They had been debating the same thing for hours, trying to piece together whatever information they could from what Taliesin had found on her recordings. Just half of the Council had convened, for it was a grave enough matter that they rather not share with the rest of their peers until they had something of substance to show for their efforts. The master seer was debating terminology with Aglain, while master Deaton’s frown showed how little he regarded prophecies. It seemed obvious that they had lost Master Grettir somewhere in their argument, because the diminutive Jedi was clearly focusing on something that they could not see. Master Kilgharrah, as usual, was difficult to read.

 

The ringing of their holocall came as a welcome respite of the useless arguments being had, even if they _knew_ it could only mean grave news. Hoping that it did not mean that something had befallen King Arthur, he clicked the button that would allow the incoming call. For a moment, there was nothing they could see but rain, and the sound of far-away drops echoed on the chamber. Eventually, Mordred appeared in front of them.

 

He was clearly soaked, but such minor discomforts were meaningless to a Jedi, and he bowed properly before addressing them.

 

“Masters, I have reached Kamino,” he started, with a frown. “There is much we need to discuss, and little time to do it safely.”

 

“Then you better get started, young Jedi,” ordered the Grandmaster, and Gaius could have sworn that Mordred was gulping, though the transmission was filled with interference.

 

As the younger man told their tale, Gaius could not help but feel astonished at what he was hearing. For almost ten years, they had heard not a single word about the deceased seer, and now her footsteps seemed to be everywhere, leading them. It was hard to reconcile the ghostly figure she had presented to a Jedi strong enough to defy them, to make provisions for a future they had not wanted to accept. He tried and failed to understand the reasons behind choosing cloners to form them an army; he wondered where she could have found the funds, but those were not answers Mordred would be able to give them.

 

“I confess I was shocked to hear her name, masters,” the Jedi said in the hologram. “I would not have imagined…”

 

“You need to widen your imagination,” answered Master Grettir, with a smile that held no humour. “Could you, now, imagine who was the person responsible for deleting Kamino from the archives?”

 

“But why, masters?” He asked, sounding so at loss that Gaius was taken back to the past, to the bereft padawan whose Master had been so cruelly slaughtered, whose best friend lay in an unnatural sleep, whose honour bond him to keep a promise and carry a burden that most of them would’ve balked at. “Why would she…?”

 

“Don’t ask why,” advised master Kilgharrah, showing unusual patience with the young man. “The why does not matter, not anymore. What matters is what we do with it.”

 

“And what do we do with it?” Master Deaton voiced the question that they all had in their heads.

 

“For now, nothing. I seem to remember that Mordred’s mission was finding a bounty hunter — I’d say he has found him. You must find out who he’s working for. Don’t worry about Master Meer-Dieth’s actions. Focus on your own mission.”

 

“I will, masters,” he agreed, dutiful as always. “I’ll inform you as soon as I’ve talked to him. May the Force be with you all.”

 

“And with you, Mordred,” Gaius spoke for them all, and the hologram switched off.

 

In different species and different configurations, all of them seemed to be equally worried about this new development.

 

“How did we miss this?” Deaton questioned, looking between them all. “A whole army…”

 

“I’ll investigate that myself,” assured Grettir.

 

“Shouldn’t come as such a surprise,” Taliesin added, thoughtfully. “Morgana _has_ told us, again and again, about an army made of one man — clones of the same man. Had we listened to her…”

 

“It might have come to nothing,” Deaton dismissed the notion, and Gaius felt a spark of indignation for his old charge.

 

“She’s hardly ever wrong,” the seer’s voice was icy.

 

“And yet, how can we fully commit our hopes to someone whose sight was opened by the Dark Side?”

 

None of them could answer that, Gaius knew well enough that this was a discussion the two masters had been having for the past decade.

 

“Prophecies are always hard to interpret,” offered Master Aglain, for his long years in the Council had not dulled his diplomatic sense. “If nothing else, this information should shed some light unto hers.”

 

Then Aglain said the words Gaius had been dreading to hear since Mordred had started his story.

 

“We will need to inform the Chancellor,” and immediately, they turned to him. It gave him no pleasure to admit to their failings, even to an old friend, specially one that would find them such pleasure.

 

“I see no need to inform him just yet,” Deaton’s voice was cautious. “For once, Uther is willing to take the diplomatic road, and _only_ because he thinks he has no way to fight a war. If we inform him right away, he may switch his views — avoiding that much bloodshed…”

 

“He _is_ the leader of the Republic,” warned Grettir. “More than that, the _Senate_ must know that if they _do_ decide to create an army…”

 

“Might it be that an impostor placed that order in Meer-Dieth’s name to make sure it _would_ come to war?” The dark-skinned master wondered out loud.

 

“It can’t have been,” Grettir informed Aglain, whose face seemed to fall as he lost his last hope. “The signature is clearly hers — I daresay we will find conspicuously missing records of holocalls from her rooms. And it doesn’t even matter who _did_ it, the chancellor _must_ be made aware that there’s an army being made in the Republic’s name.”

 

“Yet, if _can_ solve this crisis without a war…” Deaton’s voice disappeared and he sighed, clearly tired, looking older than his years.

 

“I believe he could,” said Aglain, always optimistic. “You _know_ what’s said of him — the stories — that he is the uniter of Albion…”

 

“Now you’re just repeating his propaganda,” Grettir was almost contemptuous in his words. “No one could truly believe that _Uther…”_

_“_ He has served the Republic well!” Gaius felt duty-bound to defend him, and Deaton seemed disbelieving of his words just as Taliesin pitched in.

 

“Uther has gained much popularity by being linked to the old legends and prophecies of Albion, and in times of need, people will attach themselves to such stories because they _are_ comforting. Still, the real contents of the prophecy —”

 

“It’s just stories,” Grettir tried to interrupt, but the seer was not about to allow it.

 

“Talks of a young king, coming of age in a war, uniting Albion in _peace._ They say that his fabled ruler would receive a weapon that marked his favour, a weapon of justice…”

 

“Which Uther does not have unless it’s very well hidden,” grumbled the spy, and he was ignored.

 

“Pulled from the prophecy stone by muscle and sinew alone. He’d then proceed to reign over a Golden Age, multiplying the warriors of Albion, and using them to keep order and peace in the galaxy, defeating the beast of darkness threatening to engulf them all.”

 

 

They were all silent for a moment, because the implications in that could not be missed. However, not all of them were willing to take prophecies as certain.

 

“Why is it that prophets seem to put so much faith in the ability of one, single, extraordinary being bringing about such changes?”

 

All of them had heard it before, Deaton was known for his mistrust of what he called “bright-eyed mysticism”. It naturally meant that he and Taliesin were often at odds, but for now, the seer seemed to be unperturbed by the comment.

 

“Oh, he was never meant to do it alone, Master Deaton. The prophecy of the Once and Future King declared him as being but one side of the coin to another — born from light.”

 

“You cannot mean…” there was clear dismay at the master’s face.

 

“Mordred’s padawan,” concluded Taliesin, with a smile. “Just so. Why do you think I proposed him to protect the king alone?”

 

* * *

 

 

Merlin knew he was walking into a trap. He was far more nervous than a Jedi should be, anxious and out of sorts, but he was not _stupid_. He knew that he was a lamb walking right into the lion’s den; and could only hope that he’d have the chance to show him that this lamb had teeth. Knowing that he was being baited did not make the bait any less effective: he would not abandon his mother. He was confident he could handle it — sure that, whomever had captured her, hadn’t meant for him to come. No one would expect a Jedi to know attachment, and even connecting him to her was a hard thing to do. No, he was not the prize in this chase: it had to be Arthur.

 

This was the main reason he had been so adamant in leaving the King behind, and he wouldn’t have heeded his words if it weren’t for the fact that he _could not_ leave unless Arthur opened the gates. His mother was suffering, and it was his fault — because he had hidden in a spaceship, because he had turned it on against all orders, because he had risked himself and won so much. She was suffering because he had won the gratitude of a man with a good heart, a man that did not believe in leaving services unrewarded. A man that had made sure that she would live a better life.

 

What King payed attention to the little people like Arthur did? Not even one of his own: how notorious was a slave taken away from their chains and given not only freedom but also dignity? He would never blame the king for giving his mother a chance, but it seemed obvious that they were now using her to get to him. It could have been anyone — but most people he cared about were too difficult a prey (even a Jedi would balk at facing a knight of Camelot without reason), or too well guarded (no one could ever dream of kidnapping Chancellor Uther or Gwen under their sever security systems). His mother had been ideal, and now all that was left to do was race them to the finish line.

 

Merlin was far more at home on the top of a speeder than riding a horse. The narrow unmarked path between the woods did not bother him; he was not one to balk at the increasing velocity. If anything, he wished he _knew_ so that he could move faster. Arthur finally stopped once the trees dwindled and showed him a large plain with a castle in the middle of it. A lot of it was in ruins, but the lone tower still stood, even if long ago it’s crenellations had turned to dust. Over, on the top of it, there was the unmistakable signs of fire.

 

“The Fires of Idirsholas,” he muttered, and the king’s head turned sharply towards him.

 

“It’s just a story. No need to be afraid.”

 

“I’m not afraid!” He answered, offended. “Jedi are not afraid.”

 

Arthur replied to that with a tight smile.

 

“Just so.”

 

The sun was setting fast, and they were being expected. Still, they left their speeders under the cover of trees, deciding to walk towards the castle. If one of the person inside _did_ have the Force, it would not hide them for long, but it was better than nothing. Merlin did not much like to be left at the mercy of conspirators and assassins. Breathing in, he allowed the shadows to cling to their forms, making their hard to spot. It was not a trick that Mordred would have approved, but there was next to nothing in this expedition that he _would_ have approved. Walking slowly as to not make noise, they entered the ruined castle.

 

Dust and rubble seemed to cover most of the ground, mixed with wild grass and weed. He could almost touch his mother now, her presence so close that he felt he may drown in her pain. It was not right, and he would save her. He, now, took the lead, allowing his instinct to guide them through phantasmagoric corridors, towards the place where they kept her prisoner. Merlin could feel Arthur’s presence behind him, a solid bulk of warmth, a beacon shining through and lighting the way, the only thing in this whole place that was not drenched by the Dark Side.

 

They found her in one of the largest rooms, her body crumpled on the floor next to something that must have been an altar — or a tomb. From the distance, he couldn’t see the marks on her body, but he could feel as if he had received them himself. Her breath was ragged, and abandoning all discretion, he hurried towards her while Arthur tarried behind, his hand on the pommel of his sword. Kneeling on the dirty floor, he pulled her into his arms, crushing her in a hug. He feasted on the feverish warmth of her body, on the fetid breath from her mouth, because they were proof that he hadn’t been too late, that she still lived.

 

“Mom,” he said, tears in his eyes. “I’m here, mom.”

 

“Merlin,” she mumbled, fighting to open her puffy eyes. “Are you really here?”

 

“Yes,” he answered readily. “I’m going to get you out of here.”

 

“No,” she whispered back. “No, Merlin, you should leave, leave before…”

 

“I’m not leaving without you!” He repeated, trying to free her of the chains that tied her feet to the stone, but there was something _odd_ about them.

 

“You need to _leave_ ,” she insisted, her eyes open now and full of fear. “I can’t let them get you!”

 

“They won’t,” he promised, and willing the Force to obey, he forced the metal to open. “Come on, now, time to go!”

 

He tried to pull her up, but her sufferings had made her weak, and her body slid back down, the fetters falling down with a loud clang. Merlin pulled her arm around his shoulder, decided to bring her away before someone appeared. It did not help her stand, and he knelt again, pulling her in his arms, ready to carry her out on a run if that would be what it took.

 

Hunith rose her hand, touching his face softly.

 

“My son…” she mumbled, resting her face against his collarbone. “How grown you are.”

 

“Keep your strength,” he advised her, and she gave him a sad smile.

 

“It doesn’t matter anymore.”

 

“It does,” he insisted, and as he stood again, his mother in his arms, he felt a chill running through his spine.

 

The shadow seemed to grow stronger, and as any good soldier, Arthur’s back got ramrod straight. Danger seemed to be lurking around, but he wouldn’t let that defeat him.

 

“Very good, Merlin.” A voice said in deep mockery. “Very gallant, rushing to her like this.”

 

From the shadows on the far end, a figure appeared. The light around them was pretty dim, but he doubted he’d ever forget her. It was a sharply sculpted face, with not space for softness. High cheekbones, dark eyes elongated by heavy cosmetics, thin lips and golden hair styled in elaborated golden tresses. She was dressed in a simple fashion, black trousers and long sleeved shirt, and some sort of jewelry shone on the top of her head. Merlin moved his head slightly to the left, and through the corner of his eye he saw that Arthur had stepped closer, his sword ready at his hand.

 

“Actions worth of a knight of Camelot — but not a road a Jedi should take,” she tutted, seeming amused. “I wonder what your Master would say…”

 

There was no denial that this woman, whomever she was, was dangerous and strong in the Force. The Dark Side seemed to cling to her like perfume. It was clear, too, that for all her amused tone and her teasing, they would not be leaving without a fierce battle. As delicately as he could, he lowered his mother’s body to the ground, but she seemed to gain strength from the sight of the woman, and her knees held. Using Merlin’s arm as a support, she stood, facing her captor.

 

“You let my boy go,” her voice was firm and demanding, so different from the broken sobs he had heard earlier, but it was also clear she was brimming with righteous anger. “Don’t you _touch_ him, Morgause.”

 

That made the woman laugh, and it was a sound filled with cruelty instead of humour.

 

“Oh, Hunith, you’ve been such fun to play with — but he’s a bigger and better prize.”

 

“I’m not a prize,” he answered, “and my mother’s no toy. You’ll pay for this.”

 

“Good,” the smirk marred the woman’s face. “I like it — anger, revenge. So much potential.”

 

Her words made him gasp for a moment, because it was clear that she was taunting him — tempting him. Merlin had not met many users of the dark side, but it did not surprise him that they’d behave like this. Clearing his mind, he reached for his lightsaber, and Morgause rose a thin eyebrow at his movement.

 

“Yes…” her voice was breathless, almost sensual. “Attack.”

 

The padawan had no intention of doing as she prodded him. His was a weapon to defend and protect, and it was all he meant to do. He light it up anyway, for he wanted her to wait for a blow. His mother was now between him and Arthur, and there was no need for words between them. As one, they stepped forward, shielding her from view, their weapons ready.

 

“Oh, but that’s not very fair, is it? I am but a poor woman alone… Against two warriors. Maybe I should fix that.”

 

Merlin looked to the King, willing him to move backwards, so they could get some distance between them and the kidnapper. Her hands rose towards the ceiling and for a moment, her voice rang in a command in a long dead language instead. It was as if the very entrails of the castle had come to life, the sound of moving rocks, and they walked backwards as fast as they could, fearing the she was trying to bring it down on them.

 

They were not ready for what happened next.

 

None of them had given much thought to the armours in the gaps along the hall, for it was the normal style for Camelot. Now, however, they were moving as if they were living things, walking towards them. Arthur had said that the castle had been razed three hundred years before, but their swords looked as sharp as if they had been honed the previous day. Whatever sorcery had brought them to life, it was a good one, for they moved with deadly efficiency towards where they were.

 

“Get away from here, mom,” he said, hoping she was up to the task, but there was no time to worry about it, because a blow was coming his way.

 

Instinct and muscle memory took care of it, and he parried the blow with ease. Holding up his hand, he pushed his attacker away with the Force, but another one immediately took his place, slashing at Merlin. He turned around, his back against Arthur’s, who was fending off two of the metal knights at once. His eyes ran around the room, trying to make a quick count and it didn’t look too good. Each of them were trying to keep two of the knights at bay. The one that Merlin had knocked away still hadn’t manage to get himself rid of the rubble he had landed on, but two of them now had gripped his mother.

 

“Go to her!” Arthur shouted, and Merlin hesitated but for a moment before moving.

 

One jump was enough to close the gap between them, and he didn’t even try to measure his blow, confident he wasn’t going to hit her. By all means, it should have cut the knight’s arm off, but the only effect was a fizz in his lightsaber. Cortosis — it shouldn’t surprise him. One of the two knights turned to fight him, his longsword coming down quickly, but Merlin dodged it without effort. Looking around, quick, he found a piece of rock that would serve his purpose and swirling to shield his mother with his body, he brought it down on the knight he was facing. The blast made the stone explode in a million pieces, and he felt the cut on his face as some of it hit him. His mother screamed, and it felt as the most natural thing in the world to turn around, impaling the knight holding her with his lightsaber, strategically aimed at the soft, unprotected space between the shoulder and the body.

 

His hand was already around his mother’s wrist as he turned to see Arthur strike a blow that would decapitate one of the attackers — but although the head rolled away, the body kept on attacking. It was a sickening vision, and with a strength born of desperation, Merlin yelled for the king, using his hands to create a blast through the room that scattered the knights. The king stood back up quickly, moving towards them and for a second, Merlin felt the sweet taste of upcoming victory before a strangled sound turned his word upside down.

 

From the other end of the room he could see Morgause’s extended hand, and his blood ran cold as he noticed that the bodies of the two people he was meant to protect were dangling away from the floor. Arthur clawed at his throat, and Hunith’s face was growing red from the lack of air.

 

“Surrender,” she commanded at the same time as the four knights he had knocked down stood back up, making a semi-circle around her. “Surrender, Merlin, and I’ll spare the king.”

 

“Don’t listen to her,” he urged, fighting to be heard when his throat was constricted. “Leave!”

 

The Jedi had no intention of leaving by himself, _no._ He would not fail. Instead of answering, he employed the same trick he had used with Arthur when they first duelled: moving his hand away from his body, he sent his lightsaber flying straight to her stretched arm. Unlike the king, though, Morgause seemed to be expecting something of the sort, and her other hand rose to grab it by the handle before it struck her. Her smirk grew even bigger, and now there was little he could do.

 

“Tut. Should have been a better boy!” she called, and there was a sickening crack next to his head before his mother’s body fell to the ground.

 

It was as if time had stopped. Pain, pain as he had never known before threatened to overwhelm him and he could not remember how to resist it. He felt a salty taste in his mouth, and found out he was crying as he cradled Hunith’s body, willing her to live, even if the angle of her neck told him it was impossible to survive it. Anger rose within him in waves out of his control, a need to strike, to hurt, to utterly annihilate the woman that had dared to rob him of his mother and he felt the earth trembling in time with his heartbeat. For a moment, it didn’t matter that he was disarmed, outnumbered and outsmarted. All it mattered was that she felt even a tenth of what he did. Drying his face with the sleeve of his robes, he looked up, ready  to attack, only to have all his will robbed of him.

 

Through it all, Morgause had kept Arthur suspended, strangling him. Sadness and defeat seemed to crush him down, for he had failed: failed his mother in spite of all the warnings; failed his duty when he allowed Arthur to follow him. There was no doubt in his mind that the moment he moved, the king’s life would be forfeit, and what for? What could these people possibly want?

 

“I’m not without mercy,” the woman warned, though he could see no trace of it in her expression. “Stop fighting and I’ll let him go. I want nothing from Pendragon — it is _you_ we’ve been looking for.”

 

It made no sense to him, but there was nothing else he _could_ do, for he was just so _tired_ and it was all too much, all too heavy, and all of his endurance — all of his training — seemed to have evaporated in the moment his mother had stopped breathing. Arthur read his answer in his face even before he gave the tiniest of nods and let the two knights who had recovered from his attack to hold him by his arms.

 

“Nooo!” Arthur shouted as he was released, “Merlin, don’t!” he started, his weapon ready, as if he could take them all by himself.

 

“Go, Arthur,” he urged, because it was the least he could do, the saving grace to his failure. “Just _go_! _”_

Ignoring his urging, the King readied himself to attack, but Morgause was faster and threw him against one of the walls with a careless swipe of her hand.

 

“Damn Pendragons, too stubborn for their own good,” she said as Merlin was dragged towards her. His anger has flared again, because he had been naive and trusted her honour, and it had led to nothing but his own humiliation. “Don’t worry, Merlin, he lives,” she offered.

 

Muddled as his perceptions were at the moment, he could still feel Arthur’s flicker of life in the Force. She hadn’t lied. Summoning from the floor the shackles that had tied his mother’s feet, Morgause closed them around Merlin’s wrists. The pain that followed was almost unbearable, as if something had been cut off from him. He wobbled, weak as a newborn, as he realised what was wrong: inside him, the place that connected him to the Force was silent, empty, hollow. Doubling down, he threw up at her feet, but she seemed unperturbed by it.

 

“Let’s move,” she ordered, and as once, the knights closed ranks, keeping him in the middle of them, and they moved away from the room, his mother’s body and Arthur’s limp form forgotten in the shadows of the dead castle.

 

* * *

 

 

As promissed, Taun We arrived to lead Mordred towards the Bounty Hunter first thing in the morning — though it was hard to tell day and night apart under the constant onslaught of rain in Kamino, and time lost all meaning when walking through their well-lit, absolutely barren corridors. Even though each part seemed to be exactly the same as the previous one, he made a mental map of the place they were going; it was always best to be prepared. The kaminoan stopped in front of one door that was no different to dozen others they had passed, and knocked lightly.

 

After a few seconds, the door was opened by a boy, not very different from the ones that he had seen in the labs bellow, around thirteen or so.

 

“Good morrow, youngling. Is your father here?”

 

The child’s eyes were on the Jedi, clearly curious, and Mordred smiled down at him. It took him a few moments before he looked back at Taun We and nodded.

 

“Could we see him?” she asked, clearly not amused at the boy’s manner.

 

Carefully, as if he wasn’t sure that they should be trusted, the child stepped away from the door, allowing them in. The apartment was not very different from the lodgings Mordred had received for the night, just a bit more spacious. Unlike the one he had slept in, though, this showed signs of being a true home, with personal touches scattered around in used mugs, colourful banners and a dozen of small items scattered around. The boy had gotten into one corridor, calling for his father, and he saw Taun We make a slight expression of distaste — if at the personalisation, the mess or the raised voices he couldn’t say.

 

 

It took but a few moments for the man he was looking for to appear. His face was, by all intents, not much different from the hundreds of clones he had seen the other day, except for being at least a decade older. None of them, however, had inherited the charming way he smiled, or the dashing way his hair fell over his face. They also didn’t have his scars, marks from a life spent in chasing dangers, or the distrustful look around his eyes. All of the clones had been clean shaved, but the original sported a rough stubble that covered the lower part of his face. He was wearing common clothes of dark blue that did nothing to hide the strong, well-sculpted body underneath. Had he not reeked of danger, Mordred might have called him handsome.

 

“Welcome back, Raphael,” Taun We’s voice had something akin to warmth in it. “Was your trip productive?”

 

“Reasonably so,” he said, dismissively. Mordred could feel the man’s eyes taking the measure of him, but it didn’t make him worry. The kaminoan, on the other hand, seemed unperturbed by it.

 

“This is Master Mordred, the Jedi have sent him to check on our progress,” she explained, and there was no mistaking the coldness in the bounty-hunter’s eyes.

 

“Is that so?” The man feigned indifference, but through the Force Mordred could feel his tension.

 

“You must be proud of your clones,” he offered with a smile that would have seemed kind in another situation. “They’re impressive.”

 

“Yes,” Raphael agreed, assenting with his head. “One always takes pride in a job well done.”

 

“Specially in a project of such importance,” Mordred hinted, and the older man smiled.

 

“Oh, I do what I can — just trying to make my way in the universe, Master Jedi, as most man do.”

 

“Not every one manages to create such an impact,” he offered the the bounty hunter nodded. “Or to travel so far.”

 

“Kamino _is_ not an easy place to reach,” he agreed, and Taun We seemed to be absolutely unaware of the undercurrents in their conversation.

 

“No, it is not,” the two of them were moving around now, circling each other as fighters in a duel, but this involved no weapons that not their heads.

 

One of the side doors was not properly closed — a closet, from what Mordred could tell. Their moving made the light shift, shining on to metal, and something inside it caught his eye immediately. There was something incredibly distinctive about the helmet, so different from the models being used by the clones, a carved T in front of the face spoke of a very specific place and time. It was not a common design, and the bounty hunter was clearly aware of that as he moved to block his view. It didn’t even matter, for there had been no room for doubt once he saw it.

 

“Certainly a long way down from Coruscant. Have you been there, master Raphael?”

 

“Oh, once or twice — you’ll be hard-pressed to find a bounty hunter who hasn’t,” and it was true enough, but the airy tone did not hide it as well as he might have hoped.

 

“Have you been there recently?” Mordred asked, and the sharp look in the other man’s eyes could have cut. “They’ve just conclude the reformations of the  Opera House.”

 

“Not a place where you’ll find many of my kind,” the man replied, with light gesture of dismissal. “Though I suppose I’ll need to check sometime.”

 

“Yes, I suppose you will,” he agreed, leaning his head to the side. “Were you familiar with Master Meer-Dieth?”

 

“Master who?” He asked, and there was genuine confusion in his voice.

 

“Master Meer-Dieth — the Jedi who hired you for this job.”

 

There was a frown on his face that told Mordred that he had never heard of it before, and that he didn’t like the information one bit.

 

“No — I never heard of this Master. I was hired by a man called Tyranus, through my handler.”

 

“Never?” he asked, wondering what else he had stepped on. “I thought…”

 

“Master Meer-Dieth told us when we should expect him, and he showed up exactly when she told us he would. As she had sworn us to secrecy, we kept the Jedi’s involvement from knowledge until you arrived.”

 

“Naturally,” Mordred agreed.

 

“So, you like your army?” Raphael asked, and his voice was now belligerent.

 

“My army?” Mordred chuckled. “More like yours — since they’re all clones of you. An army of a single man.”

 

Raphael grinned back at Mordred, making full use of his charms.

 

“Oh — that they are. And they’ll do their job well, I can assure you — any job.”

 

“I _do_ look forward to seeing them in action,” Mordred lied, easily, because it was the right thing to do, to give this man a false sense of security. “Thank you for taking the time to meet with me, Raphael.”

 

“The pleasure was all mine, Master Jedi.”

 

He bowed, properly, and as they reached the door, the bounty hunter granted him another roguish smile.

 

“I do hope we meet again, Master Jedi,” and he said and gave him a wink before closing his door.

 

Mordred did not have to feign his laughter at the cheekiness of the man.

 

* * *

 

 

Every single bone in his body hurt. It was something that surprised him even before he managed to open his eyes. As a warrior, he was no stranger to pain, but he couldn’t quite recall the origin of it. It felt like being trampled by horses — or what he imagined being trampled by horses might be like. He was in a weird position, something digging hard into his back, but trying to see hadn’t helped him solve the mystery. He was surrounded by complete darkness. Taking a slow breath, he tried sitting up.

 

Some shadows were darker than others, and Arthur noticed he would have to wait until his eyes adjusted to the lack of light. There had been fighting of some kind, but why?

 

It came back all at once — the dreams, the medallion, the running to rescue, Hunith. He scrambled to stand up, immediately on his guard, but there seemed to be no one around. The damned unbeatable knights and the dark woman leading them was nowhere to be seen — nor was Merlin. She had, though, left him behind as she said. It was passing strange to find someone so clearly _evil_ honouring their word. The clouds shifted on the outside, allowing the first glimpse of moonshine to enter the room, illuminating the fallen body of the woman they came to save.

 

His heart heavy, he walked towards Hunith, for he owned her to face his failure — whatever Merlin said, it _was_ his failure. Arthur had taken her into his protection, but not guaranteed it. She had paid for it with her life. Getting to his knees next to her, he closed her eyes. It was an empty gesture, but if anything, he could show her some respect.

 

Some meters ahead, he could see the shine of metal, and he walked towards it, knowing what he’d find. His sword was fallen down on the floor,  useless as her carrier, powerless against their foes in a time of need. Pebbles and dust fell from his chainmail as he grabbed it back, their sound echoing on the empty chamber. The blade had been twisted beyond being useful, and he dropped it back on the floor with a clang. He had nothing.

 

There was no question of leaving Merlin behind, even if he had nothing but his own body to defend him with. The padawan’s face flashed again in front of his eyes, the way it had been when Arthur last saw him, drowning in grief, pain, and utterly defeated. The image was enough to give him strength — undoubtedly, one the Jedi would not approve, coming from anger — but he welcomed it. He was not going to just let her have him.

 

They could be anywhere, of course. Although there wasn’t a good place to leave the planet anywhere near the fallen castle, he did not doubt that they _could_ have, if they so wished. And yet — yet — something inside him made him sure that Merlin was not very far away. He might be Force blind, but there was an almost supernatural characteristic to his presence, that seemed to shine even to those who had no eyes to see. No, whatever were Morgause’s plan, she was still in Camelot.

 

Arthur left the ruins of Idirsholas in a brisk pace, his mind trying to figure out the best plan of action. Once he was safely out of the building, he grabbed his emergency communicator, the one that would put him in direct contact with Gwen. It rang once, twice, three times before his friend answered, her face showing signs of alarm.

 

“Arthur?” She asked, her voice urgent. “What’s happened? Where _are_ you?”

 

It had been foolish to hope their escapade had gone unnoticed, by now they had missed two of their daily check-ins. He felt sorry that he had distressed her so, but it was hard, sometimes, even for a woman as remarkable as Gwen, to understand the bonds and oaths that made sure he would not stay in safety while other’s suffered.

 

“I’m — well, I won’t say ‘alright’, but I’m alive, it’s what matters,” he took a second to let it sink in, but she was having none of it.

 

 

“ _Where_ are you? Why did you leave the Isle? What kind of insanity…” she paused for a moment, as if trying to put puzzle pieces together. “Is this related to the emergency safe call you made Lance put through to Essetir?”

 

“Yes,” he conceded, for there was no reason to lie to her.

 

“Don’t tell me you’re off to Essetir!” she chided, and didn’t even wait for his reply before continuing. “What could possibly be _so_ important as to lead you to make something so… so… so… foolhardy as to get out of the planet to…”

 

“It was Merlin’s mother,” he answered, and Gwen shut up, her eyes moving from exasperation to worry. “She was kidnapped…”

 

“Oh, Arthur,” Gwen sighed. “I’m sorry — but _still_ , that’s no reason to run off to _Essetir_ …”

 

“I’m still in Camelot,” he assured her, wanting to get straight to the point. “Gwen, be quiet for a second and listen: people know I’m here. It doesn’t even matter — what I _need_ is a rescue team made ready — as soon as you can get one here. I don’t care if you have to drag them out of their beds, I need it made ready _now_.”

 

“Where should I send them?” the woman asked, and by her face, he knew she was already putting out the first calls to it.

 

“Idirsholas.”

 

His answer gave her a pause, and she seemed frozen as she looked at him.

 

“Idirsholas?” she repeated, as if she couldn’t believe her ears. “Why would…”

 

“Does it matter?” he interrupted, and she knew better than to argue. “Get our best men. Tell them… The Fires of Idirsholas were lit up.”

 

Fear was clear in her face now, but she wouldn’t balk at his order.

 

“Where will you rendezvous?” she asked instead, and he shook her head.

 

“Tell them to do scanning and to block all non-military air-traffic. I’ll find them when I can.”

 

“Don’t be stupid, don’t you go around plunging into danger — I’m sorry for Merlin, I am, but she’s just a woman…”

 

“It’s not Hunith,” he replied, his heart constricting at what he must say. “It’s Merlin. They’ve got Merlin. And I’m going to get him back.”

 

The horror look in Gwen’s face was all he could see before he disconnected.

 

There was no time to waste.

 

* * *

 

 

Morgause was pretty happy with her handiwork. It hadn’t been her normal life experience that things would go down so… Smoothly as they turned out to be. In fact, it was almost suspiciously easy. She looked around, taking in her four companions — minor things, more talented in bashing and violence than in the intricacies involved in what they were trying to do. Their only saving grace was that they were slightly touched by the Force; barely capable in it, but it was enough. She took a moment to appreciate the sheer masculine pull of their physical form; the dark red colour of their skin, the pitch black beauty of their markings, the long sensuous curve of their horns, the ripped muscles of their belly, the sculpted arms and strong legs that marked them as some superior form of male.

 

Well, as superior as they could be considering they were still _male_. Men, she had learnt before she could even start to walk, were playthings. Maybe one in every thousand or so were worthy of notice. It was a lesson she had kept in her heart during the long years of exile, during the times where she had been forced to obey to people who saw her as a pawn, as an insurance, not as what she really was.

 

Strong. Lethal. A mistress of the blood magic and more than capable to use what the Jedi called Force to do her whim.

 

Even as a child, she had been talented. Her captors had never figured out that she was not a hostage, but a time-bomb put on their midst. Not until it had been too late — and it had made it all even sweeter. Their pain had been music to her ears, their blood balm for her soul. She had lost no time in returning home, to the welcoming embraces of her clan, to recognition that she was equal to the most powerful between them. More than it, she had had what few others in between their midst had: the understanding of how the rest of the universe worked and an ability to blend herself into it.

 

It was how she had been chosen, how she had ended up here. The Clan Mothers had told her it was an honour and a proof of trust, but it had been far too easy to get the attention of Count Peter. The glamorous fool had put a call out in the underworld that he needed an apprentice, someone that could both fight and feel the powers that connected everything living and there had been no shortage of people willing to answer. None of them, however, were a match for her. It had been incredibly easy to subdue them, beat them, cast them around like a child’s building blocks. She had bowed to him with just a trace of contempt that he would even entertain the idea of training one of them and had been rewarded by it with a fast attack.

 

No, Count Peter might be a man, but he was no fool, and he made sure she knew it. For all her ability, all her talent, he had called her raw and unrefined, and with good reason. She had gone through the competition as a hunting dog chewing on a rag-doll, but this man was a Master. He was _good_ and he made sure she knew it — both with a lightsaber and in manipulating the Force. He had none of the cold detachment she had learnt to be the basis of the Jedi; none of the weakness that made them easy prey for her people; no, the man knew how to use his passions to achieve his ends. His vision was clear, and he had judged her worth it.

 

The only single time she might have cared for a man’s judgement, truth be told.

 

The boy she was guarding hanging in ropes from a tree had the same potential, she could see — but none of the clearness of vision, none of the finesse that had allowed her to respect Peter. No, she would enjoy playing with him, as a cat with a string ball, never respect him. The orders had been clear, the plan well-thought of, and everything so far had gone without a hitch. It was a pity that she would need to unbind him, but they could not get what they came for unless he participated willingly from it.

 

Had somebody told her, years ago, that Camelot held the secret to the fall of the Jedi, she would have laughed. It was a backwater planet, full of silly, self-important men that thought they were capable of something. Proud and foolish in equal measures, they were so easy to manipulate it was almost offensive to do so. Merlin, it seemed, had learnt far too much from them, which worked in their favour now. He had been overconfident, had expected too little of her, and it had made it easy for Morgause to capture him.

 

Of course, that her Clan Mothers had made sure to share with her the secrets of Idirsholas and the trick to calling back to life the stupid, gullible men that one of their sisters, long ago, had ensorcelled and binded to their will had helped. At least it had spared her of counting on the help of the zabraks that had been assigned as her companions. They had the terrible habit of considering themselves _sentient_ beings, of having _opinions_ , of _inventing_. Morgause had very little patience for them, although they did make for a good bedsport on occasion.

 

Not the time or the place, not now.

 

She looked up to the sky, measuring from the double moons when the time would be ripe. Not long now, and it might even be for the best to call their guest out of his forced sleep. It wouldn’t have been pleasant, she didn’t think, being forced down into a maze inside of his own head, but it would make him more biddable, disoriented enough that he would not question too much until it was too late. The orders had been to let him _go_ after they broke the blood-attuned casing and retrieved the artifact inside, preferably without him being none the wiser about the peculiarities in his own line. No, some secrets were best left well-guarded, in case they might need a final ace on their sleeve in the future.

 

Waking up wouldn’t be kind, either. Morgause walked up to him, smirking at his limp form, and ran her index finger from his temple to his nose. From the outside, it might seem like a simple gesture, but it was far from real. With a pulse of _will_ she had sent his mind into a frenzy of horror, so incredibly intense and true that would force him to return. The boy gasped and thrashed and his eyes opened, filled with fear.

 

Good. If he _knew_ fear, it would all be easier.

 

They stared at each other for a few seconds and she was amused to see the dread turning into defiance. That he had spirit would make him all the more fun to break — and she had no doubt that she _could_ break him, given enough time.

 

“I will be letting you down, now,” she warned him, “don’t be stupid.”

 

With a single gesture, she made all the ropes fall down, and he followed them to the floor. After so long, his limbs would be numb from the lack of circulation, but that wouldn’t deter him for long. She was ready when he moved, smooth as a snake, lunging towards her. It was almost too easy to summon lightening to her hands and shock him before he reached her.

 

“Easy, now,” she cooed, and he snarled from where he was now bind by electricity. “I don’t wanna hurt you.”

 

“Then don’t,” he spit back, and she laughed.

 

“Well, _behave_ and I will let you live.”

 

It was a bluff, but not the way he would think it was. Murdering Merlin, as pleasurable as it would be, was _not_ her objective here. His expression showed that he did not believe her, and she rose and eyebrow, feigning confusion.

 

“Oh, you _think_ you were the target… Don’t be so foolish, Jedi, you’re only a tool. Play nice, and I’ll let you go free… After you’ve done what I want.”

 

“I’d rather die!”

 

Morgause couldn’t help but laugh at his bravado, at his stubbornness, at the sheer arrogance of his words.

 

“Really?” she asked, tilting her head towards her shoulder. “And who’ll guard your king, then?”

 

Something dark and dangerous flash in his eyes, then, a protectiveness that went far, far beyond whatever sense of duty that the Jedi drilled in the poor infants unlucky enough to be sent into their care. Interesting.

 

“You leave him alone!” His voice was surprisingly strong for someone who had been through everything he had been through.

 

“I said I’d leave him behind if you came with me and I did,” she reminded him. “If you’d rather I grabbed him back and…”

 

Her expression told him well enough the kind of things she would do in that case, and if looks could kill, her life would have been forfeit. Luckily for her, if there was a trick to it, Merlin had not learnt it.

 

“No?” She asked, smirking at him. “I thought it would be your answer.”

 

“What do you want?” he asked, finally, and she let the tendrils of lightening fall. Merlin stood, staring at her, his chin raised up in pride.

 

“It’s a simple thing, really,” she told him, walking backwards in the clearing they were in and trusting him to follow. “I’d like you to open this.”

 

She moved, pointing him towards the object in the centre of the open space. The square base was made of black marble stained with red, and on it stood a perfect pyramid, gold metal on the edges and something even harder than exoglass in the middle, boysenberry markings against the violet background. There was an eerie beauty to it under the twilight, its colours reflecting the shades of the sky as it prepared itself for a new dawn, but Merlin just eyed it — weary and curious at once. She watched as he stretched his hand towards it, feeling the inevitable pull of his blood, before getting a hold of himself.

 

“You bothered to kidnap me, to _murder my mother_ , just to open some weird…” He looked at her, eyes full of distrust and disgust. “No. No. What is this about?”

 

“It should tell you how far I’m willing to do for the contents,” she said, simply but as he didn’t move, she decided to humour him and elaborate. “There’s something inside that was stolen from my clan, long ago, by your people — and I don’t mean the Jedi. It was locked under this, and only you can open it now.”

 

He stopped in his tracks, staring at her long and hard, before speaking, slowly.

 

“You tried to use her first,” he said, and she merely nodded. It would have been simple, of course, but it had always been but a slim chance that Hunith would be able to do anything about it. “Why would my people — not that I even know who those might be, mind you — _steal_ and _hide_ something from yours unless it was incredibly dangerous?”

 

Morgause huffed, she was in no mood for a history lesson, but she had also been warned that forcing him into opening it wouldn’t work. She needed to get his help, as little as she liked it.

 

“My people and yours warred for long, millennia ago. Your _people_ were… They could not bear the thought of superior women.. They could not respect that females can and should rule. They sought to vanquish us, to put us in chains, to subdue us… And we fought for our freedom. We looked for ways to protect ourselves — and created this… artifact — to keep all of them out of our borders.”

 

She held her tongue as much as she could, not sharing how incredibly limited and inferior their thoughts and actions were, trying to leave aside the feelings that had been ingrained in her since birth. It was easier if she could feed him the story of the underdog, of the compassionate people doomed by their own ability to trust and protect others, for it would speak to his heart. Better to turn his heart against his own, even if for now it would be better if he believed he was truly the last.

 

“They had to get smart, then. Instead of an attack that was doomed to fail, they chose infiltration. They sent us a woman, posing as a refugee, trying to escape their harsh hold. We never turn away women. Even those who are daughters, sisters, wives and mothers of our enemies are considered our own sisters first. The universe is not kind to females, and we had long been a safe heaven. We took her in — and she betrayed us. She stole the artifact and fled, handing it to your people. We were not expecting the attack, and they almost completely wiped us out.”

 

Morgause was glad to see the look of disgust and horror in his face that was not at all directed to her. It would serve them nicely.

 

“I am _sorry_ that I had to act as I did — but there’s a war coming, and we _need_ the protection. The Separatists are on rough wooing campaigns, and the Republic never cared a bit about us. We _need_ the artifact. Would you have done differently? If it was one life, or all of the people you’ve loved…?”

 

She let the question hang in the air, and for a moment, he tilted in between acceding and attacking again, the raw pain of his loss reverberating in the Force. Merlin looked from the object to her and back at it.

 

“Can I trust your word that this won’t be used against the Republic in any way? That you will simply disappear back to wherever you came from, and leave us be — leave us _safe_?”

 

“You have my word,” she answered, never bothering to tell him that words were wind, that promises were lies. He’d find out soon enough.

 

 

He nodded, as if getting himself ready, and reached towards the casing that was almost as tall as she was, pressing the warm palm of his hand against the the cold glass that recognised him immediately.

 

The shoot of light that followed was almost blinding, and Morgause felt a chill running down her spine. The four sides of the pyramid lowered, letting the inside be shown. On the very middle of it rest a horn made of ivory with dark silver symbols around it. Morgause could feel its power even from distance, and the boy knelt, holding it in his hands, with a dazed reverence. It spoke to him as it spoke to her, in whispers of binding and of dominance, and after a moment, his instincts and training kicked in and he let go of it as if it burned. Mayhap it did.

 

“You got what you wanted,” he said, his voice void of emotion that meant exhaustion.

 

Morgause summoned it from the forest floor and into her hand, before smiling at him.

 

“Thank you, Merlin.”

 

Thrusting her hand out, she threw him against the woods, exactly like she had done to the King earlier in the day. He fell down, knocked out of his senses, and she turned towards her blood guard.

 

“Let’s go.”

 

She didn’t wait to see if they were following her. There was no need.

 

* * *

 

 

When Leon had sat for the first time on that round table, all those years ago, he had vowed to himself he would be anything and everything Arthur needed him to be. He would be a warrior in times of war, a counsellor in times of peace. He would be a friend in times of grief and a confident in times of distrust. He had sworn himself to Arthur, and all his loyalty, all his duty, all his talents were at his disposal — not because he was Camelot’s King, but because he was _their_ king. And he knew, too, that every person around that table had done the same, had felt the same, even if they had other duties and even if their steps led them away. It was a never spoken of axiom of their lives since that day: whomever was there, was Arthur’s man, and whomever was his man deserved their trust and their loyalty as well.

 

He had just arrived back to the planet, after three different diplomatic rounds, talking to people who tried to pretend they were not offended to have him speaking to them instead of their king. It hadn’t been easy, keeping everyone happy, compromising, but Morgana had been right: there was a reason why he had been named as Camelot’s First Knight. Leon had no false pride, he knew he was not as skilled a swordsman as Lancelot, or as intimidating as Percival. He was not as easy-going as Elyan, nor as politically-driven as Gwen. Still, the first two couldn’t have served as deputies, and the two others were not knights, so the burden had fallen on his lap, and he had taken the mantle gladly, because if that was what Arthur needed, Leon would be there to give it. There was nothing Leon would deny Arthur but his heart, and his king had no interest in having it either.

 

Leon was, however, still human. He was tired and wanted nothing but a good night’s sleep after two weeks of uninterrupted tension. He wanted to smell his planet’s air and to relax into slumber through the sounds of its life. He had been able to just fulfil his duties without despairing for Arthur because he _knew_ , as all of them _knew_ , that padawan or not, Merlin would give his life to keep Arthur safe.

 

Their failure, it seemed, was that they hadn’t considered that Arthur would do the same.

 

It seemed like such a major thing to have overlooked, now, when Gwen had taken him out of the bed he had just met again, as they rushed through darkness in rescue of the two of them. Should have been obvious, because that was the kind of person their king was, the type to return devotion in equal measure, not differentiating between people, judging them by their merits alone and not whatever social standings there were between all. It was one of the reasons why they loved him; it was one of the reasons why so many were eager to follow him. He could command people’s hearts because his was so big, and to have it become a source of danger for him was painful, but not so surprising. They should have known that it was where this would lead.

 

Gwen had been superbly careful in her selection, and even with all the fail-safes and measures she was about to implement, no one would be wiser to Arthur’s presence on the planet or the predicament he had found himself into. He had requested a rescue team, and she had chosen the best — the ones that could be trusted above it all, the ones that already knew most of it. As Leon had gotten down to the hangar to see that his company was but Lancelot and Percival, Elyan already inside the ship that would carry them, he had felt part of his anxiety disappear. Those were his brothers, men that would go above and beyond the line of duty to make sure they got them both back safely. Men that would not balk at the telltale shine of fire on the top of the long destroyed tower of Idirsholas.

 

Leon never particularly enjoyed flying, but he truly hated those open-sided military transports that they had taken to cover their ground. It was incredibly fast, and yet, he could take no relief in knowing that they’d be there in record time when it meant half an hour of being buffeted by the wind. A tiny part of him resented Lancelot, for the other knight seemed immune to it all, standing stoically even as the air tried to throw them to their deaths. He trusted Elyan when the man said it was perfectly safe, it didn’t make him like the situation any better. At least he was in better shape them Percival, who looked like he might get sick at any moment.

 

“ETA 2 minutes!” Elyan announced in the intercom. Gathering his courage, Leon looked down from the large opening on the sides to see their destination.

 

The ground was much further down than usual, but that was to be expected. Elyan had made sure to fly far above the usual height for such vehicles, not wanting the sound of the machine cutting through the air or the rush of wind that accompanied its arrival to tip the people they were looking for in any way. The trees in the forest that Leon _knew_ towered over man in impossible heights looked like bushes, the ground all but invisible. And ahead — coming closer but still quite far, he could make out the darker shape of the fallen castle and the eerie flames that once again graced it’s keep’s highest room.

 

All children in Camelot had heard the tale of The Fall of Idirsholas; the story of a witch who had seduced and enslaved the seven most powerful knights of the realm, claiming their lives and their will, turning them into immortal, unstoppable puppets. She had wanted the crown, it was said, and waged war on the rightful king, seeking to gain it and to spread her reign of terror. They all cheered as Bruta, the most famous of their warrior kings, had gone to an old friend for help, seeking in long lost lore the answer to this threat, and received the secrets to beat the knights — and taking his kingly sword, had given it, as a man does whenever yielding, to his old friend and allowed it to be bathed in dragonfire, making it capable of killing even that which no longer had life. Once he received it back, his friend had warned him that once the job was done, he must cast it away, down the bottom of a lake or imbibe it into a rock, for its terrible power was not meant for common men. Bruta had agreed, and taken his armies to war, but as the two sides were ready to meet, he had stopped them all and challenged the traitorous knights to a duel.

 

Alone, one man against seven, and he’d prove who had Right on their side.

 

Arrogant as always, the witch had commanded her knights to answer the challenge, trusting that her dark arts would give her victory, for what hope had one feeble man, flesh and blood, against seven that he could not hurt?

 

Bruta had then met them in full view of the two armies, against incredibly uneven odds, and readied himself to fight. Alone, he beat them all — for once the first knight was truly hurt by his sword, the other six cowered in fear of the blade. The story — often sang — went on and on about the battle, their prowess, their feints and blows, only to conclude that they could not withstand the King and fled. Seeing it, the enemy army had lost heart, and deserted the sorceress, who tried in vain to fight Bruta, only to be merciless slain. As her life ebbed away, the knights had all fallen too, as puppets with their string cut, and with her final breath, she had sworn revenge, warning Bruta that Camelot’s pride should fall once the fires on the keep were lit once again. Not heeding her words, the King had razed the castle down to rubble, but try after try, they could not torn down the keep, and it had remained as a mute warning and memorial for a once powerful house brought down by pride.

 

That was but a legend, a story to create awe and fear in children. The reality behind these events was much less impressive — the witch had been but a woman, a proud woman, whose enchantments did not require any powers but that of a beautiful face and a honeyed tongue. The crown she had coveted had been her own — for the child yet unborn in her womb, who’d have the right of it before his young, warrior, uncle did. Her House had been skilled in the workings of cortosis, and their superior technology would make their knights hard to beat, and the fabled duel most likely had never taken place, and Leon was too much of a pragmatist to believe in stories about magical swords. Still, it was one of their most known tales, the whomever had lit the keep’s high chamber had done so in hope to bring fear to their hearts — but they were about to learnt that it took more than children’s tales to weaken the Knights of Camelot.

 

“Get ready to descend!” Elyan’s voice returning broke Leon away from his thoughts, and he was grateful for the warning, feeble as it was. The pilot turned the ship’s nose down in a dive that made Leon’s stomach grow cold even while the safeties held him in place. Percival was positively green, and their ears hurt from the quick change in pressure. He made an effort not to look outside, to the fast approaching ground, to silence the voice in his head that told him they were about to crash, and just _trusted_ Elyan would get them there.

 

At the last minute, Elyan pulled up, allowing them a rough but safe landing. The ship did hit the ground with a bone-rattling thud, and skidded wildly on the plane’s grass, leaving behind a scorched mark on the earth. Lancelot, naturally, was the first to recover, shaking his head a bit before unbuckling his harnesses and jumping out before either Leon or Percival were even ready to move.

 

Walking outside, Leon noticed, for the first time, that on the horizon, the first signs of day were showing. It was nothing but a hint of pink and shades of purple against the mountains, but and he couldn’t help but wonder if that would help or hinder them. The cover of the night was good for stealthing into the enemy camp, but the daylight would make their tracks easier to find. Lancelot seemed to be thinking of the same thing as he looked at Leon and shrugged.

 

“Alright, time to get my boys into prime shape,” Elyan said, without getting off the ship. “I’ll be on the line, in case you need aerial support.”

 

“Thank you,” Lancelot said, his voice warm as usual, and Elyan made a gesture with his hand that told him not to bother with it.

 

Percival had recovered fast of his discomfort now that he had his feet on solid ground, and was already walking towards the castle, searching for clues. He was the best tracker between them all, light on his feet in spite of his huge form, and the two other knights were glad to follow his lead. It was paramount that they found the King, and they could only hope that Arthur had not gotten himself captured in the time that had elapsed between his call and their arrival. Even in the wan light of their fading moon, it was easy to see the path that the captors had taken; grass trampled by heavy feet with softer marks were Merlin and one other person had walked. They followed their steps, for Arthur could not have missed them, walking towards the cover of woods.

 

The forest had run wild and uncared for even in the proximities of the castle, regaining ground that had once been beaten into submission by people. In some places, the trail disappeared only to resurface a few meters ahead, where wild animals and fallen fruits had hidden their passage. They moved swiftly for a while, until the path was no longer clear. There was a small gap in the woods, far too small to be called a clearing, where the party had clearly parted — one heavy set of feet moving ahead, while the other six pairs went east and west, each of those accompanied by one pair of lighter feet. It was impossible to tell which of those would have been Merlin’s or which Arthur had decided to follow.

 

The big knight crouched, analysing the forest floor under the weak light of his personal lantern, moving between the locations before turning towards them.

 

“I can’t tell you which one was Merlin, but Arthur followed towards the East.”

 

With a nod, the three of them kept on following the path, and it was clear to Leon why their liege had chosen this one. Arthur knew the forest better than most, he loved hunting and exploring, and many of his youth nights had been spent in here. He would have known, even before they could hear it, that a river ran close by. The sound of the waters running against stones was a welcome one, something they could easily follow. They crossed it carefully, for there was no fording without a mount at this point and no bridge, the only way to the other side was jumping over between moss-covered stones. Leon might have spoken against it if the steps were not clearly imprinted on the mud of the far edge, following the riverbed for a while until it turned inwards, leading them into the forest again. Leon stopped wondering how long it would take for them to find Arthur, focusing solely on following the tips left by those who had come before.

 

All of them had hunted and camped on these woods before, but this area was not one they could remember exploring. There was an particular savage air to it, as if the world had forgotten it existed for far too long, the air damper and the roots larger. They demanded their space, not respecting rock or river, spreading and intertwining in a tapestry of life. It made the appearance of the clearing even more surprising, for there had been no warning for it, no spacing of trees, no louder sound of water, although the river coiled through it until where it ended on a cliff, creating a majestic waterfall, so far down that even its sound was deafened to their ears.

 

In the cover of the woods, night still reigned, but stepping out, they could see the run rising with it’s blinding radiance and gleaming against polished metal.

 

This was where they found their King, standing in the dawn’s beam, the reddish hues of the sky making his chainmail look like fire, the golden light of the sun crowing his head like a shining halo. It would have been an awe-inducing picture even without what stood next to him: a perfectly shaped stone, with a sword deeply embedded into it. It looked nothing like the ones they usually wore, its design ancient — a pommel bathed in gold that crossed in exes around the leathery grip, the cross-guard’s elegant design that led to the silver blade whose edges seemed to fade into nothingness from how sharp it was, with a fuller in pure gold, engraved with symbols of a language long dead. It seemed to have impacted Arthur even more than it impacted Leon, and no one moved, not even to alert him of their presence as he walked towards it, his hand curling around it as easily as if it had been made to him alone.

 

The King’s arm moved in a smooth movement, and the blade slid free of its natural scabbard as if it had been butter instead of stone. The momentum made his arm keep going, until it’s impossibly sharp point was aimed at the sky, his body turning naturally towards them, shock, surprise and pride in his blue eyes. Leon’s heart sang in a song he hadn’t even known it had as he witnessed it all, and Lancelot was the first to kneel, followed by Percival, and he could not deny that he understood the impulse that made him follow. Standing on the orient light,an impossible weapon on his hand and crowned by nature itself, he seemed almost super-human.

 

“My king!” Lancelot called, his words emotional, heartfelt, as Arthur stared at them, unmoving.

 

“My king!” He and Percival repeated.

 

A sudden and intense wind picked up them, shaking the venerable old trees until it seemed that nature itself bowed to Arthur’s kingship, and for the first time that night, Leon was sure they would win.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 


	9. Chapter 9

 

Lancelot’s knees had gotten wet from the morning dew once he knelt, but even if he _was_ a man given to fuss, he wouldn’t have minded it, for there was nothing short of miraculous on the sight he had witnessed. It was a wonder, from start to finish, and that for all that they followed a multiple feet track to this point, the king would be alone, unharmed, and armed with a sword that had come straight out of legend. Of course, it did not surprise him that if _someone_ was to yield a mythical sword, it would be Arthur, for he was a leader long awaited and long heralded, for all that his father had claimed that mantle for politics. It was something in their blood that sang when he spoke, a recognition that was imbued in their bones, in their lines, that _this_ was the man they had all been waiting for.

 

There was no time, however, to bask in the glory of the moment, no time for more words than their automatic pledge, for behind them, where the night still dominated the forest, something caught the king’s attention. Arthur’s eyes moved from them to it, going from wonder to alarm in a fraction of a second, and as one, they three knights were on their feet, ready to fight. A strong beam of light had burst from something on the ground, breaking the cover of the trees and trying to reach still purple sky.

 

Arthur was next to them in a second, his sword ready, but they were still far. There was no question that whatever had caused it, it must be the place where they would find Merlin. Gwen had mumbled something about an artifact and kidnapping, and in Lancelot’s admittedly short experience with such things, a beam was as good indication as any. The four of them had clearly followed the wrong track, but the king was fast in rectifying this mistake, lunging himself into the shade of the threes, rushing to the rescue of the young man that had once rescued them all.

 

Leon and Lancelot barely traded glances before following him. It was not that uncommon for Arthur’s action to be abrupt, while his diplomatic skills were honed, once peril lay ahead, once someone he cared for was under some sort of threat, his decisions were immediate, with little concern for his own well-being. It was not so surprising that he would run to try and make safe the man that, by all means, should be the one making him safe. It was a mutual bond of protection, much like the one that binded liege and vassal, and he would see as his obligation. Still, on the distress of his face, there was something far more intimate, fear and guilt that went far beyond duty.

 

It was not his place to question it, it was not his place to second-guess what had happened before they arrived. It did not matter. His job was to follow his king and help as he had been commanded, to protect him, even from himself. Although he knew all those things, he could not help when his mind travelled back in time, recalling the young boy they once picked up on Tattooine. His relationship with the king, then much older than he was, had been a mix of loyalty and barbs. His incredibly blue eyes had shone with an idealism that was at odds with his experiences, a slave made racer made free. The boy’s heart had been far too big, and far too easily broken, and it had hurt them all the forlorn figure he made when the Jedi Council had refused him. Lancelot tried, but he could not even begin to imagine how utterly lost he had been, alone in an universe that he did not understand, without a place, without a family, without anything that he could hold to. He remembered talking to Gwen about it, on those fateful days before the Battle of Camelot, wondering what would become of him if once it all settled down, he still had nowhere to go.

 

Of course, it had never come to that. No, Merlin had surprised them all again, a boy of twelve that was a pilot that none of them could hope to match, blessed by the gods and strong in the Force, invading a station alone and blowing it up out of sheer luck. He had won them the battle, made sure that Camelot would live to see another day, that it would resist the forces of the Banking Clan, that justice would be served. Elyan had brought him back to the planet for joy and sorrow, and they learnt his benefactor had been defeated. The arrival of recently-elected Chancellor Uther and the Jedi with him had filled the boy with dread, and he had cried on Gwen’s arms once Mordred has made it clear that he was responsible for Merlin and would take him back to Coruscant. They had not believed that the Jedi Council would relent, none of them but Mordred, and his will proved stronger. He had not been willing to compromise, Lancelot imagined, to lose more than he had already lost, his master and his best friend gone beyond his help, and he had advocated for the boy with fierceness.

 

Truth be told, Lancelot hadn’t thought much about either in the intervening years, but he had been glad to assist Arthur with his plan to relocate the boy’s family, proud to see the man and Jedi he had become. One could not walk into Merlin’s presence and not feel the power under his skin, even without the slightest bit of sensibility. It was in every measured gesture, in every economically graceful step. More than that, in his eyes, his adoration for the King shone with every look, and Lancelot had been sure that Arthur would have been safe in his hands.

 

He still did not believe he had judged him wrongly.

 

Retracing their steps under the darkness, their party was now less careful with being silent than they had been before. Going on a beeline to the source of the light that had long since faded, they were moving far quicker than on their first crossing of the woods, not bothering to check for tracks. All their instincts were standing sharp, waiting for the worst, and yet, the worst never came. They walked into a clearing to find a strange monument on a black marble pedestal, the embers of four different fires, one in each side of the clearing, hastily put out and still glowing faintly in the dark. The king, however, noticed none of it, his eyes going straight to the form on the ground.

 

“Merlin!” he called, kneeling down next to the limp body of the padawan.

 

Lancelot, Leon and Percival fanned out, swords out and ready, giving the King and moment to bring him back to consciousness and the illusion of privacy.

 

“Arthur,” Merlin’s voice was a bit slurred, and with the corner of his eye, Lancelot saw as he sat up. “Morgause!”

 

“She’s gone,” assured the King, “Whatever you’ve done — that light — it sent them away.”

 

The younger man was having none of it.

 

“No, she’s still close enough — I can feel her,” Lancelot moved further to the east and the padawan’s profile seemed to have been carved in ivory. “It’s like a sludge against my skin, dripping darkness.”

 

The knight had but one moment to hope that the two of them would be reasonable and turn away, leave while they still could, let Elyan and his pilots take care of the matter. He might as well have wished for winged horses.

 

“Then she will pay.”

 

Him and Leon traded a look of utter dismay, but that was also to be expected. The original source of commotion, Merlin’s mother, was conspicuously absent of the scene, and they would never leave without her, it was not in either man’s nature to allow others to fight what they saw as their battles. Merlin accepted Arthur’s hand to stand up, and shook his head when Percival tried offering him one of his extra weapons. It made sense: Lancelot could not remember ever seeing a Jedi use anything but a lightsaber, and his was absent. When it rains, it pours, they said.

 

It was clear that there would be no talking either of them out of this folly, the best they _could_ do was resign themselves to follow, two to protect instead of one. They needed no words between them to adjust their positions, encircling the two men. Arthur was far too used to them to take notice, but Merlin looked around, frowning a bit before discarding them from his mind.

 

“I saw no sign of those damned knights in camp — but she had a few zabrak warriors with her.”

 

It was the king’s turn to frown, looking between them, as if making sure they had all heard the urgent whisper. The woods were quieter than normal, though, so the Jedi’s words had been clear.

 

“Zabrak?” He asked back, and Merlin shrugged a bit. While they were all moving quickly, it was clear that the pace wasn’t pushing his stamina more than a stroll.

 

“From what I could gather — I think she’s from Dathomir or something like it. She’s dark, yes, but it’s not like — that sith. She might be a nightsister.”

 

The information did nothing to quell Lancelot’s worries, but he doubted it was not an accurate definition. He knew as little about the nightsister’s as any one that was not one of them: that they were a matriarchal society, divided in clans, with different traditions. Most of their women were force sensitives, and they refused to yield even a single child for Jedi training; though, on occasion, they’d use the non-sensitive girls to ally themselves to other planets — at least one queen consort of Camelot had come from there. Merlin had described her as _dark_ , but from his what he had heard, they were mostly _neutral_. Of course, none of this attacker’s actions could be described as _neutral_.

 

“Morgause wanted something — a protection artifact against the war,” continued the padawan, throwing the three of them another look above his shoulder and starting to move faster. “Wanted to keep her people safe,” he snorted, but it was a bitter sound. “Worst is — if she had just asked, I would…”

 

His voice broke, and he stopped dead. Percival almost walked right into the king, but Arthur hadn’t seemed surprised at the sudden halt, his hand going straight for Merlin’s shoulder and squeezing it. The padawan had his eyes closed, clearly fighting something for a second, pain written on every line of his face before it smoothed out as if it had never been, giving place to sheer, cold determination. He opened his eyes, looking at the man touching him, and gave a sharp assent. Arthur let his hand fall, and they were moving again.

 

It had become almost a obstacle race, now. They could do little but follow as the Jedi moved ahead, jumping over roots, taking sharp turns around threes, zig-zagging around trunks, following a compass that he alone could see. Lancelot felt sweat running down his back, his breath ragged as he fought to keep pace and stay alert under too few hours of sleep. Merlin skidded, almost loosing his footing as he twisted around a mossy stone, balancing himself against the air like a zero-gravity ballerina before his feet were back in solid ground and he was rushing with renewed speed to the lighter space ahead.

 

Lancelot knew it could only be a clearing, what he _didn’t_ know was how the kidnapper hadn’t arrived long before they did, considering her head-start. Torn between triumph in finding those they had been chasing and cursing their luck for meeting them at all, he walked into the clearing along with his fellow knights. What he saw was far more shocking then what he could have expected.

 

She had reached her ship before they arrived, that much was clear, but it was a hard place to fly out of, and Merlin had taken Arthur for his word when he said she’d pay. The Jedi stood at the edge of the clearing, his hands up, contorted as claws, and the metal casing seemed to be twisting under his pleasure. The small ship curved and bended, loosing the little height they had gained, and now it was clear that he had hit their fuel compartment, for something seemed to be trickling down.  None of them could say a word, they barely dared to breath, for they were witnessing the impossible. The child they had known has vanished, leaving behind something incredibly powerful and absolutely merciless. Lance felt his heart cower at the sight.

 

Inevitably, the ship started falling back down, close to the height where Elyan and his team would be able to shoot it, which they promptly did. They were startled by the joyful, childish whoop that Merlin let out before starting to run again, as a pirate or a hunter, eager to capture his prey.

 

Morgause was ready for them once their arrived, standing on top of the twisted remains of her ship, the zabraks that had been mentioned around her. They all seemed to have weathered the fall well. Lancelot held his sword steady, taking the measure of the men around her, but her smirk caught his eye. It was not the smile of a person who knew they were stranded, not the sight of someone who was about to battle. She seemed victorious, as if she was humouring them all along. It made him feel queasy.

 

“Well done, young Merlin,” she said, her voice filled with mockery. “Though I remember telling you to _behave.”_

 

She stretched her hand towards them, and Camelot’s men followed their instinct in ducking away from whatever she was hurling at them, but Merlin stood still, ready for the green lightening that he deflected with some ease. Her smile grew bigger, scarier, and she tried again, but the Jedi was fast, jumping behind Percy’s body, picking up his inactive shield and turning it on in time. It redirected the electricity towards one of the trees, leaving a deep scorch mark on it, and some of the leaves caught on fire, but they paid it no mind.

 

The zabrak moved down, picking their weapons just as the knights stood again, closing ranks around the Jedi. Morgause grinned.

 

“I see you brought friends — big mistake.”

 

Raising both hands up, she started to sing in words Lancelot did not know, but Arthur’s face was closer to recognition than alarm. Merlin shoved the shield back at Percival, jumping ahead, but he could only react to his king’s words.

 

“On me!”

 

They overlapped their shields as they had done countless times before, even as Merlin tried to use the Force to push Morgause from where she stood. She sent him backwards with a blast of her own, and all Lance could see was green smoke swirling around them, solidifying into knights — their armour dark as a starless night, the sigil of Idirsholas engraved on their chests in dark silver.

 

The knights of Medhir, the knights of legend.

 

Ahead of them, he could see Merlin struggling to fight against the zabraks, four against one, and yet, before the apparitions could move towards them, he had disarmed one of them and blasted another away. Lancelot’s focus narrowed to what he had to do, and his sword moved to block a slash from the nearest knight. He had counted seven of them, almost two for each — the kind of odds that normally made his King thrive.

 

However, those were not men, there was nothing natural about them, and when Percival brought down his sword in one of their heads, in a attack that cut through helmet and down, breaking the skull beneath in two and keeping his sword stuck on mail and collarbone, the knight had just kept moving. There was something horrifying in it, on his friend’s look of despair, on Arthur’s hopeless thrust ahead. It was all useless.

 

Except that, the knight attacked by the king stumbled and fell behind. For a second, all they could do was to look at each other, shocked all over again. The knights had also noticed, and they were now pressing the three knights harder, avoiding Arthur’s blade. The king laughed, breaking formation, sure that they’d compensate quickly enough, swinging his new weapon wildly and burying it on the spine of the closest dark knight. All Lancelot could do — all they had to do — was defend themselves and stop at least some of them from going for the king. Able to hurt them or not, he was still outnumbered.

 

They fought with all they had, letting go of the fancy manoeuvres and of honour, aiming at limbs, ready to maim. He doubted any of them had more than one eye on their opponent, trying to gauge if Arthur needed help where he was taking two knights by himself, doing their best to ignore the sounds of the padawan’s battle against the zabraks.

 

Soon enough, Arthur threw his hand around the neck of the knight fighting Lancelot, pulling him backwards as he stabbed the man’s belly. It was not his normal style, but it had worked. Only two knights remained, and Arthur cut out the already ruined head of Percy’s rival before his blade crushed the heart of Leon’s opponent. Suddenly free, the four of them turned to look at Merlin’s progress.

 

The witch’s guards were scattered on the forest floor, unharmed but unable to help. The padawan had taken a staff from one of the zabraks, reinforced songsteel alloy if he was any judge, and was using it to fend off Morgause’s attacks — she held a lightsaber in each of her hands, one red and one blue, and her brutality was like a dance seeped in bloodthirst. The two of them jumped closer and away in a mortal dance that none of them could hope to intervene, Lance did not see the hit that changed the game, all he saw was Merlin throwing away the staff, the blue lightsaber now in his hand.

 

For a fraction of a second, the woman looked scared, corned. The next one, her blood-red lips stretched in a cruel smile, as her hand moved quickly, bringing down the burning tree unto the shipwreck. Lancelot’s ears hurt beyond anything he had ever experienced and his body seemed to melt, and he could not even understand what was happening before the explosion claimed him.

 

 

* * *

 

 

Years of practice hadn’t made it easier — not being able to do anything as events unfolded behind her unseeing eyes. Specially so when they concerned someone she cared about, and there were few people she _could_ care about more than Mordred. The Temple disappeared around her, and she felt her sense being assailed by a reality that was not her own: the salty air, damp with unending rains and moving in crushing winds that seemed capable to throw a starfighter out of its course. Mordred was a mysterious figure under his dark brown cloak, saying words she could not hear neither cared about, because she felt his intentions in spite of whatever he spoke. Her eyes were drawn by the unusual people he talked to: tall, lean, graceful and curiously unfeeling. More Jedi than the Jedi, they seemed, nothing coming from where feelings should have been.

 

They left her friend alone in the platform quickly enough, and the astromech droid had chirped, annoyed at having been left alone for so long, but the Jedi wasn’t hearing him any more than he was hearing Morgana, so far away in the Capital. He seemed to look away at the distant horizon, water and sky meeting in a ton sur ton. After what seemed seconds but was probably much longer — time and space were distorted when her Sight was working — he walked back inside the building.

 

Disorientating as usual, the images came in flashes: pristine white, a broken in door, items thrown around in a rush, the sound of running feet wearing Temple sandals. Rain, cold and hard against a body she did not have, the voice of a child yelling in shock and surprise. A new hangar, a new ship: not the Jedi starfighters, but a monstrosity with an oval base with two side wings, almost ready to fly, it’s top shaped like a gun and even at distance, Morgana felt a ripple of fear. She could see no sign of the child she had heard, just her friend, his arctic blue blade shining through the storm and a man in armour opposite to him.

 

It was not an ordinary armour either, shiny silver reflecting the lightening on the sky, connected together by blue fabric. The helmet hid his head completely from view, an awkward visor in the form of a T allowing the wearer to see ahead. The markings on it spoke of long usage, of a life lived in violence, and the blasters on his hands was quick to shoot at the intruder. Mordred had been prepared, though, parrying them with ease. There was undeniable skill on the mercenary, jumping back behind one of the ship’s wings and moving crossing his arms, his shots creating a curtain of lasers that Mordred could not get through.

 

The ship grumbled, turned on by someone she could not see — perhaps the child? — and as the Jedi moved ahead, ready for the inevitable confrontation, the bounty hunter turned on the jet-packs on his back, flying low but high enough to spread death from above. The training and reflexes proved true, with Mordred rolled away from the danger faster than he could be hit, a blur of brown against all the grey and blue. It was not enough, though, to discourage his adversary, who just changed tactics. Pressing a button on his high-tech gloves, he summoned a low-grade tracer missile. It ran quickly towards the Guardian, missing him by no more than an inch — enough to save him from certain death, but still so close that the impact threw his body backwards, his lightsaber spinning away.

 

Mordred’s opponent disappeared from view as the ship turned towards the fallen Jedi, it’s frontal cannons shooting the floor around him. Fire burst from the contact, but he remained largely unscathed, always moving backwards and away from it. Morgana could see the anxious way his eyes looked for his lightsaber, but he couldn’t see it, and she could not help him. As he scrambled back to his feet, they could both see the mercenary coming quickly from the sky, ready to attack again.

 

He was not given time to do it, though, because Mordred seemed to have been expecting it. With the special impulse every Jedi child learnt to master before they were five, he lifted himself in the air, his leg ahead, kicking the other man in the chest in an impact that he was not expecting. It caused his blasters to fly from his hands, and the fight turned far more physical than usual, as it disabled the jet-packs, throwing him back to the ground. Coming down from the air, Mordred tried for a second hit, but the bounty hunter was ready now, and held his right foot, throwing him back on the ground. Her friend managed to counterattack with his left one, and although the blow managed to unbalance the man, it didn’t have much strength behind it.

 

It still gave them both a few seconds to try and stand again before they were trading blows. Mordred was in clear disadvantaged, for the had no metal protection against those, but he seemed ready to push the natural endurance of the human body and just plunge though whatever was thrown against him. Morgana’s body was frozen as the Sight worked through her, but she could have flinched at the nasty head-butt that he received and sent him flying back to the ground. The other man lost no time in pushing his advantage, flying once again and throwing an grappling hook that bound Mordred’s hands in place, even as he was summoning his lightsaber back.

 

Unlike most of such traps, this one kept him connected to the man he had been attacking, being dragged against the floor as he jettisoned ahead, trying to turn the wild sea of the planet into his grave. For a few moments, it seemed like he would manage it, and Morgana’s heart beat faster in anxiety, but then Mordred once again proved why he was considered one of their best, using the speed to his benefit, turning it into a roll that had him standing and throwing all of his weight in the opposite direction as they approached a pillar. The string connecting them curved around it, and the jerk caused by the sudden resistance made the bounty hunter’s control to get loose, falling quickly back into the wet floor, his jet-pack disappearing into a minor explosion that was absorbed harmlessly by the armour he wore.

 

Mordred was rushing forward, making the line between them to grow from taunt to lax, and he jumped once again, kicking him as he stood up and sending him flying backwards into the open side of the landing platform. What had been the hunter’s trick once again made the Jedi prey, bound together, the momentum of the first man’s fall pulled the second right with him. It was a stupid mistake, and Morgana could have cringed at it, even in a vision the sound of the mercenary’s activating the knives on his arms and using them to break his slide down the metal dome hurt her ears. Sparkles flew at his attempt as metal rubbed on metal, until it finally stopped him. Naturally, it did little to slow Mordred’s progress through the same slope, and her friend fell down, dangling above the lower levels and the ocean, the thin rope the only thing between him and doom.

 

The mercenary’s arm was pulled down with such a force that it might have taken it out of its socket, and the man grunted in pain as he fell down a few more meters. With a supreme effort, he managed to bring the offending limb closer to the one that kept him safe and push a button, letting the line go down, the last safety her friend had, and her distress at it was so intense and her screaming so natural, that it pulled her out of her vision.

 

Her heart was beating fast, and she needed a moment or two to remember how to move. Standing up as quickly as she could, ignoring the pins and needles that spoke of far too long in the same position, the picked up her communicator, switching to Mordred’s frequency. It might not be too late — she might be able to help him, to _warn_ him. The holocall signal beeped a few times before an automatic voice informed her that it was out of reach. Switching, instead, to her former Master, Morgana watched Taliesin weary face show up, almost transparent.

 

“Master Morgana,” he started, sounding tired. “I — we — have been meaning to speak to you…”

 

“Has the Council heard from Mordred?” she interrupted, not caring in the slightest about what he’d say about her manners. “Has he made contact?”

 

“Yes,” he agreed, as if expecting both her question and bluntness. “Which is what we want to talk about…”

 

“I can’t reach him!” she announced, far too afflicted to care. “I’ve seen — he and the bounty hunter — and he fell — I have to…”

 

“Calm down, Morgana,” he said, as if she was once again a padawan. “Your emotions cloud your judgement, child. Centrer yourself. Breath. Feel. Look for answers in the Force,” he instructed, and she did as she was bid, closing her eyes.

 

It was not easy, letting go of the emotions that went so deep under her skin, but slowly, she managed it. She let go of her worry. She let go of the fear and of the pain. She let go of her anxiety. Finally, she let go of the other things — the good things. She let go of her love for Mordred. She let go of friendship, of caring, of attachment. She let go of everything and allowed herself to become a blank slate, nothing but peace surrounding her. She was, finally, fully in the Light, and allowed the tiny spec that was her consciousness to look for the familiar signature of Mordred’s connection to the Force. In this state, space counted for little, and his presence shone in blues and greys that spoke to her of family, of steadiness, of life.

 

 

“I can feel him,” she told Taliesin, opening her eyes to see him nodding.

 

“Good, now…”

 

“He’s safe — for now. But for how long?”

 

It was a rhetorical question, and her old Master dismissed it as such.

 

“It will be as the Force wills it,” he reminded her, once again. “Now, if you’d be so kind — there are some things the Council would like to discuss with you. Can you come to the Council Chamber in… Let’s say, two hours?”

 

It was a request made out of politeness, not one she could really refuse, whatever her feelings. She nodded, because it was the only thing she _could_ do, but the old Jedi took pity on her, and offered some comfort.

 

“You’ve seen terrible things happening to him before,” as if she could forget. “And nothing came of it. You know how visions are — glimpses, incomplete. It might as well be that he’ll find his way out of it just fine…” he sighed. “If it’s worth anything, I don’t think he could come to real harm without you feeling it.”

 

It was not a common thing, for Jedi to offer comfort, and she gave him a watery smile in return.

 

“Thank you, Master.”

 

“You’re welcome, Morgana,” he said, before his face blinked out of existence as the hollocall was finished.

 

Still, deep in her heart, she felt a tiny stab of fear.

 

* * *

 

 

This time around, Merlin had been ready for the blast. He felt her intention before she did it, even if he had been too slow to prevent it. The explosion on the back of the shift threw him on the air but momentarily, until he managed to use the Force to twist his body, landing on his feet on the far end of the clearing. The knights, he saw, did not have the same luck; but he could not worry about them now. The fire would act as a beacon, and they’d get help soon enough — he could tell that they were mostly fine, if hurt. What mattered now was cornering Morgause.

 

He jumped over the ship remains, rushing into the forest. Now that he had managed to get a handle on it, her presence wasn’t hard to follow. It was dark and slippery like some sort of reptile, unlike anything he had met before. Rushing forward under the cover of the trees, he tried to close the distance between them. She must have known she was cornered, she had disabled her own transport, and now she had no easy way to leave the planet. Even underneath the canopy of trees, he heard the sound of approaching ships, but he didn’t let it distract him from his aim.

 

Morgause might have felt like a snake, but she was quick like a cat, and when he finally was able to see her, she was halfway through climbing one particularly tall tree. It didn’t particularly make sense to him, but he didn’t try and put logic into her actions when clearly they were moved by the desire to inflict pain more than anything. Jumping up, he landed in one of the branches, and continued his pursuit. The woman was still ahead, pushing out of the tree lines now, but not by much. One leap and he might reach her.

 

He had but a second to notice the increase on the wind speed and the loud buzzing noise coming their way before he figured out her plan. As a predator on its final prowl to its prey, she launched herself on the wing of one of the rescuing ships, using both of her hands to grab firmly to it. The pilot continued without noticing, and Merlin whipped his head backwards, calculating, before doing the same to the next one to come by. It was no easy task, made harder by the lightsaber in his hand, to manage to climb to the top of it, fighting inertia all along. Drawing strength from the Force, he balanced himself on the wing and made his way to the flat top of the one-person fighter. A flash ahead caught his eye as the used her crimson red lightsaber to breach her ship’s hull, dragging the inert pilot out of it. She didn’t even look before throwing him down from it, taking his place.

 

Cruel, but smart. As he walked towards the transparent dome that separated the pilot from the outside, he could feel the man’s terror, and made his best to appease him, both with his face and with the Force.

 

“Follow them!” He ordered, and the relief in not being mauled was palpable. He could see the man communicating to the rest of his group, and just then he noticed that three more ships were closing in on them, firing at the hijacked one. Merlin flattened himself against exoglass and metal, not wanting to be in the way of lasers. With the hilt of his lightsaber, he tapped on the dome, which was opened after a few seconds. There was no way he could climb inside, no extra space, and that was not his plan either way. “The king and his knights are hurt down there!”

 

The person piloting gave him a curt nod, before relaying the information on the comms. His voice was gruff and deep, but he seemed competent, for at no point since he figured he wasn’t being attacked he had slowed down.

 

“We’ll get them, sir,” he assured Merlin, and there was nothing to do but trust his word.

 

“Get me closer so I can jump over,” he instructed, standing up again.

 

Morgause was a practised flier, he had to give her that much. She dodged every shot, surely using the prescience the Force allowed her to do so. Merlin was sure that if _he_ had been piloting, he’d had already gotten to her, but that wouldn’t help at this point. No, he might have reached her, but inside a ship, there was nothing to be done but shoot her down, and he wanted her _alive_. A different sound crossed the air, then, the sound of incoming sirens, and looking backwards Merlin saw one of the fire-relief ships was now coming towards the forest, undoubtedly alerted by the spot of fire that was beginning to spread, dark smoke tainting the sky as the sun rose. Hoping that the people he left down would be unharmed by it, he looked ahead once again in time to see the woman take a sharp turn upwards and do the last thing he expected her to.

 

She was now coming towards them, shooting them back, and Merlin turned his lightsaber up, deflecting what he could. It was clear that she had noticed him, and it was obvious that she wasn’t willing to stop while he was on her way. She was fast in closing the space between them, but she was too far ahead now for him to just jump through, even if he could make through the barrage of bolts. He skidded down as they turned around, grabbing the vertical stabiliser to keep himself upright. For a moment, he wondered if she had thought it’d be enough to make them stop.

 

Merlin tried to warn his pilot, but it was almost to late. The fire-relief ship was floating in place now, raining down water on the woods, and the mad-woman seemed ready to smash herself against it. With all the smoke between them and the firefighters, it was just as likely that they hadn’t noticed the danger in the situation and, as the shape suggested friends, they did not move in time. Morgause’s stolen ship passed so close to it that it drew out some of the red-coat on top. The three other remaining ships — Merlin’s and two more, since one had gotten down to aid those who had stayed on the ground — swayed wildly to avoid the bigger vehicle, that kept on pouring down water.

 

For a second, he could taste victory: the stolen fighter seemed to be sputtering even from the small bump it had received, and was now oscillating wildly in the air, loosing group little by little. The three of them got closer, and this time around, the lasers hit their target full on, causing it to fall ever quicker. Adrenalin had been rushing through his veins, making his ears sing in the midsts of the cacophony of different noises, and as elation tried to settle down, he noticed something had changed.

 

No, it was too easy.

 

There was no way that Morgause couldn’t have avoided those, even if the controls were half-dead. His heart was beating wildly as he turned around to see what a fool he had been. They had been so intent on getting Morgause, that none of them had noticed the missing sirens. Looking back, he could see that the fire-relief ship was no longer stationed, the shower on the forest had ended, and it was now cutting through the sky to the west, faster than they could catch it. Frustration and anger shot through him as he punched the stabiliser.

 

She had managed to elude him.

 

* * *

 

 

 

One would imagine that after almost two decades in the service of the Jedi Order, roaming around the Galaxy in various missions, first along his master and later as a master himself, Mordred would have learnt that things could always get worse.

 

And yet, it managed to surprise him every time.

 

Master Nimueh had often said that he only thought so because he focused too much on the negative side of things, but Mordred thought he was just being realistic. After all, one would expect that after being beaten up and managing to disarm a clearly talented bounty hunter, things would get a bit _better_.

 

One would, of course, be wrong.

 

Nothing about this whole chain of missions was going well for him — sure, he had discovered some important information concerning long unknown orders from dead Masters  —  but truth was that he was no closer to figuring out just who was willing to pay to have Arthur dead. At first, he had dismissed his claims about Count Peter, for he had known the man reasonably well before he left the temple, being close as he was to Nimueh. Simple assassination seemed not to be his style: too brutal, too simplistic. This whole conspiracy with a ready army, on the other hand, smelled very much like one of his schemes; except he had nothing to gain and much to loose if the Republic was to find herself with a ready army.

 

Uther would waste no time in convincing the Senators that the time for diplomacy was over; that their trust had been broken, and that the Separatists should be treated as traitors.

 

Not that Mordred disagreed that they _were_ , in many ways, traitors. He just did not believe that a was would solve anything.

 

Of course, no one would ask him his opinion, so he might as well focus on the problem at hand.

 

Breathing steadily, he allowed himself to be swallowed by the Force until reality around him became barely a dream — his mind spreading and searching while his body remained still. He was now dangling from a thin rope, that would either give in soon, or be released if the man he had been trying to apprehend got his way. Underneath him, the choices were a long fall that would splatter his body against the lower levels of the city or a dive into the freezing ocean even further bellow — which he could not survive, either. Though it seemed like a dire predicament, within the Force, the way out was as clear as a stone path in the middle of the woods. Mordred moved his body, breathing evenly, as his perception kept expending. His spirit greeted those of every living thing around him and let them go in turn, until it managed a small grasp on the wind to help him.

 

The breeze threw him backwards, and his body immediately tried to return to the initial position, moving the rope in a pendulum even it lowered a few more feet. Thinking quickly back on his childhood, he did the same again, gaining momentum for less than two seconds before he was falling again.

 

He had been ready for that, too, because the Force had showed him the way.

 

Inclining his body forward, he swung his right arm wildly, claiming ownership of the object’s movement, before throwing it away to safely tie itself against one of the pillars. It did break his fall some, but the pull back on his arm was painful, and the solution had only left him dangling from a different position. Although it’d still be something of a jump, he now was close enough to one of the platforms to safely land. Swinging himself again, he jumped forward, a tiny gesture of his hand making the tie fall once again from where it had been stuck. It took him a couple more seconds to free his hands, that had been bound to each other by the Bounty Hunter, and ran towards the door.

 

The entrance recognised the warmth in him immediately, showing him the disturbing bare walls of the settlement. Mordred was not looking forward his way up; every corridor looked exactly like the one before, it would mean time that he did not have to spare. Inclining himself towards one of the computers, asked the system for input on where he was supposed to go. It would not be as subtle as he would have liked — though certainly Merlin with his easy ways around machines would have made it disappear in a second, he was not here now — but it was his only option. He was surprised to find out he could reach the open hangar quickly, through stairs.

 

For some reason, he hadn’t considered that Kamino would have something as ordinary and low tech as stairs. It served him well-enough; for lifts had to be waited for and often took longer than he’d like them to. Picking up the speed, the Jedi dashed through the steps, jumping between sections whenever he got an angle. With some luck, Raphael was having a miserable time to climb back through the slippery dome in full armour, and he’d arrive in time. Mordred pulled up the hood on his cape, wishing he had left it behind — it was useful to keep him hidden in some places, but it had just gotten soaked as he fought through the rain, and it was a hindrance in such action packed moments. On the other hand, it didn’t bother him much, minor discomforts were part of the natural path of a Jedi.

 

Mordred had a nasty suspicion that, as he was supposed to be dead, he wouldn’t be very welcome in here.

 

Be as it may, there was little he could do about it, so he just allowed this nagging certainty to be gone along with the rest of his worries.

 

The second door also opened easily to his approach, unaware of the feelings of the ship’s owner; letting him come in time to see the bounty hunter walk inside his ungainly ship, hitting his head on the lowering door as he came in. It was obvious that the man had been helped, he had not forgotten the fierce fire that had spawned from the vehicles cannons once he had been on the floor. Probably, it came in the form of the child that had greeted Mordred earlier when he had first met Raphael; the same one that Taun We had confided to be part of the man’s payment arrangements, without any of the accelerated growth or restraints of the other clones — indeed, not even a real clone, since other genetic material had been combined with his to create the child.

 

Not all was lost, though: rummaging through his belt, Mordred curled his fingers around one of trackers that were part of a Jedi’s regular mission kit, and tossed it towards the hull as the ship left the ground. It attached itself easily to the metal, a small twinkle of red warning him that it was active and transmitting. Assured, now, that he was not about to completely lose track of his only clue towards the mystery of Arthur’s attacker, he looked around hoping that in his haste to leave, the mercenary had not remembered to pick up his lightsaber.

 

A Jedi did not part with their lightsaber, not only because it was more an extension of themselves, more a limb than a weapon, but also because even in untrained hands, their power of destruction was too great to be left unchecked. Few were the Jedi that used other weapons, and even if they were well trained in combat without it, it was to be a last resource (not to mention, Illium was kriffing cold — it made even Hoth look warm and agreeable — and no one _loved_ going there if it could be avoided).  Though nobody could _make_ a lightsaber without the Force, it was not impossible to use them without it — even without training in the ways of the Force, it still worked a bit better than common sword, deadly than most but ungainly as the blade held no weight. He had no doubt, however, that this particular adversary would be more than capable of handling it to deadly effects. It was, after all, his speciality.

 

He felt true relief wash through him as his eyes caught a glimpse of a different quality of silver on the ground, and he stretched his hand, pulling it back to him. His grip was firm on the wet metal, but the tips of his fingers moved in what was almost a caress before securing it back where it belonged, at his left hip. With a sigh, he turned backwards, intent on returning to his own hangar.

 

Mordred had a feeling his I4 unit would not be thrilled with the chase they were about to start.

 

* * *

 

Arthur had known, when he saw the fire-fighting ship move away, that the witch had managed to escape, but that did not prepare him for the expression in Merlin’s face. He had seem the boy upset, tired and afraid, but never before had he shone with so much _rage_. It was something primal, something visceral, something most warriors felt in their blood in the middle of a battle. For some reason, he had never expected to see Merlin succumb to it. Maybe because he was a Jedi — though Nimueh had been ferociously happy during fights — or may be because he kept trying to tell himself that he was still a child.

 

There was nothing childish about the man coming towards them now; his cheekbones were flushed, and his eyes were narrow, lips half-parted. The top of his head was a mess, and there were scrapes in his face he didn’t seem to have noticed. His vests also were showing signs of the struggle: tears, stains and even burns. Fabric had completely disappeared from a point where he had had a close call with a lightsaber, giving a glimpse of the pale skin of his broad shoulders. His steps were firm, sure, and he barely spared a glance to their direction before walking towards the prisoners.

 

Morgause’s blood guard had been unconscious until the reinforcements arrived, and had been quickly secured. Each of the zabrak’s was closely tied down, their bodies secured against the heavy tree trunks while they waited for an appropriate transportation to take them away to their cells. Arthur didn’t even know for sure if that would do them any good — they hadn’t been present at the murder scene, and if they _had_ participated on the kidnapping, they’d have to be judged in Essetir and not Camelot, whose laws could be softer towards them. It gave him a sour taste in his mouth, for he wanted justice for Hunith’s life, but it was all he could do.

 

Merlin knelt down in front of them, ignoring all the Camelotians, and something in Arthur’s skin prickled. He exchanged a glance with Leon, making sure that they’d be given privacy, and his First Knight started herding the rest of them away. Lancelot had already been removed, his head bandaged and in a dire need of medical attention, and Percival seemed to have a broken arm. What worried Arthur, though, was Merlin’s broken heart; which might prove much harder to mend.

 

Carefully, he approached, enough to overhead Merlin’s words to the zabrak’s but not wanting to invade his space.

 

“ _Why_?” he asked, his voice torn. “I’m gonna ask you _one last time_. Why _her_?”

 

The one on the further left was the one to answer.

 

“Well, there was a chance _she_ could open it. If she had been useful, she wouldn’t have died.”

 

“Useful?!” Merlin repeated, shaking his head in disgust. “She was a _person_ , not a tool!”

 

“And if she _couldn’t_ open, she’d be the perfect bait,” he continued as if Merlin had said nothing. “She brought you here, didn’t she?”

 

Arthur saw as his fists became balls, trying to control the emotions battling inside himself, but it did not seem like a fight he could win.

 

“How could you…” he started, before the answer was clear to him. “Morgause.”

 

“Lady Morgause is very talented,” he agreed, showing his predator’s teeth in a mock grin. “She made _sure_ you got the _message_ …”

 

Arthur felt a pang in his heart, knowing somehow that they referred to the nightmares that had been tormenting the padawan for some time. He could only imagine how he’d feel if one of his instincts betrayed him like that, and to such dire consequences. He could almost feel the tremble that was now almost in control of the younger man’s form. He shook his head, as if trying to clear it, and the king’s heart went out to him.

 

“Why would you _even_ think she _might_ be able to open it? She was just a normal woman, she…”

 

“Was that what she told you?” The zabrak let out a dark laugh. “That she was nobody? A slave?”

 

“She grew up in a _farm_ …” He continued, but the raspy voice of the zabrak cut through his speech.

 

“More like a state — and yes, she was _common_. She was _nobody_. A serving wench, working on the fields, and only good for tumbling over some hay — which she was always glad to do.”

 

Merlin was on his feet in a second, his lightsaber lit up and pointed at the zabrak’s throat, and yet, he did nothing but chuckle at the sight. Arthur wanted to go to him, but he also understood all too well what drove Merlin there, he doubted he would have reacted differently in his place and although he had barely known Hunith, the stain on her honour implied by the words were enough to make him angry.

 

“Don’t you talk like that about her,” the Jedi admonished, but the prisoner cared little for the warning.

 

“Don’t you like hearing the truth, _Jedi_?” he asked, turning the name into a curse, a spitting on the ground. “Don’t you like learning how she was nothing but an ordinary whore, who caught the eye of the Lord’s son and became his plaything? I _bet_ she was good sport about it too, panting and moaning, and…”

 

The next words never left his mouth, Merlin was too quick and too incensed for it. Arthur hadn’t even seen the move that decapitated the zabrak, but his eyes widened as he saw the green blade moving back from where it had carved a hole inside the chest of the man that was already dead. The king felt like he was underwater, not moving or thinking fast enough, as the grieving man turned towards the other three zabraks.

 

“Anyone else wanna spread lies?” he challenged, and the three of them just laughed at him.

 

“What lies, scum?” asked the next zabrak, with a wicked smile. “She was _begging_ for it, every time we…”

 

There was a blur of green as Merlin attacked him, slicing through the left arm and part of the body as if it were butter. Arthur tried to come closer, but he was too far, too slow, and the younger man seemed to have lost control, and just kept charging against the zabraks, his blade too quick for his movements to be truly seen.

 

“Merlin!” he called out, but he was past hearing now, drowning in anger, disgust and grief, his blows wide and ungainly, aiming to hurt, to maim, to _kill_.

 

There was no more life in any of the bodies, and still he kept slashing, shredding them completely.When Arthur finally was close enough to try and stop him, he turned with his lightsaber towards Arthur, as if he, too, was the enemy, his eyes glazed and wet, tears rolling down, and just a lifetime as a warrior managed to make him survive the strike, as his blade came up to parry the shiny one. The impact seemed to wake the man up, and Arthur tried again.

 

“Merlin,” he said, his voice softer now, and while the force behind the push stopped and his arm fell down, he did not turn off his blade.

 

“They’re _animals_!” he growled, his voice full of emotion. “They’re _animals_ , and I…”

 

“They’re dead,” he corrected, gently, and Merlin seemed to come out of a daze, looking around at his handiwork.

 

It was a disturbing image, limbs and heads separated from bodies, cut into parts, gaping holes in chests and hips. There was no blood, but the smell of burnt flesh was powerful, and this close, it made him gag. Merlin’s face was completely transformed, as if he had just now seen what was in front of him. His mouth was open, his lips trembling, and there was nothing in him of the vengeful warrior that came down to the clearing. He was, once again, a boy, unsure of himself, a boy that had lost far too much. He started shaking violently, and his lightsaber fell to the forest floor, the sound muffled by the blanked of fallen leaves.

 

“What have I done?” he asked, almost a whisper, before his knees buckled and he fell down himself.

 

Arthur did not know how to react, did not know what to do. He was no good at consoling, and couldn’t truly imagine what Merlin felt like. He was a warrior, and he had killed, even in revenge; but it must feel different to a Jedi. This was, also, no clean kill: it had been an assassination, and so at odds with the kind, caring and gentle young man he had known he couldn’t properly respond to it. At the same time, he doubted he’d fare any better if it had been _his_ father killed in front of his eyes; if _he_ had failed to save his own parent. Arthur had never known his mother, and yet, he would have done anything to protect her memory. Merlin never had a father, and now he had no mother either. He had no siblings and no family, and the loneliness must be crushing him as he curled to the floor, sobs racking through his body.

 

The king lowered his body, letting his hand come to rest on Merlin’s back, but the contact went unnoticed. There was not much he could do, and for a moment, he wondered how he’d explain the small massacre in the clearing to his people — though they’d not ask. All of them would understand easily attacking to defend the family’s honour. None would think attacking those who could not fight back anything less than cowardice. He doubted that any of the people left to Merlin, the people in his order, would even try to understand it.

 

“I’ve failed,” the padawan bawled, a deep breath making his body shiver. “I failed you, I failed her — I failed my order. I am… I am…”

 

His head shook, as if he didn’t know anymore what he was, and it hurt Arthur to see it.

 

“You’re Merlin,” he offered, because there was nothing more he could say.

 

“A traitor,” he whispered back, seeming to not have heard his words. “What I’ve done…”

 

“One mistake does not define you.”

 

Merlin turned around, his eyes latching to Arthur’s, as if he could not believe what he had heard.

 

“Murder. This was murder — and madness. I was _weak_. I let them… _There’s no emotion, there’s peace_ ,” he quoted, his eyes full of anguish. “ _There’s no passion, there’s serenity._ I let anger take control of me. I let it…”

 

“You are hurt,” reminded Arthur, and that made Merlin stand, once again irked.

 

“I’m not _supposed_ to be hurt — a Jedi does not _have attachments_. Control your temper, Mordred’s always saying; emotions cloud your judgement, he tells me, and they were _prisoners!_ They could not fight back and I… Now they’re _dead_!”

 

“There’s no death,” the king said, his voice soft, knowing it might be the only thing he’d hear. “There’s the Force.”

 

Looking up at Merlin, he saw a fresh wave of tears rolling down his cheeks, his head shaking non-stop.

 

“They’ll never forgive me for this,” he told Arthur, and there was no need to explain who “they” were. “I disappointed them all — or proved them right. And Mordred — Mordred…”

 

The thought of his master was clearly almost more than he could bear, his head hanging down in shame. Standing up, Arthur got close again, touching him lightly as if his hands could ground Merlin and stop him from drowning in his own despair.

 

“Mordred is the most compassionate person I know,” he assured the padawan. “He _will_ forgive you.”

 

Merlin shuddered, looking at him from under his eyelashes, his eyes and nose red from crying.

 

“Do you really think so?”

 

“I’m sure,” he said, with a certainty he did not feel.

 

It was good enough for Merlin, who turned towards his extended arm, gripping Arthur’s vests around the chest as if it was the only thing capable of keeping him upright. Without thinking, without planning, the king let his arms encircle the padawan, trying to keep him safe. Something unique bubbled within him as he wished nothing ever happened to him, that he’d always be the person he knew, that he’d never hurt that much again, that he’d never _change_. He couldn’t care less about what the Jedi said, _feeling_ was not something that could be avoided, not something to be suppressed, and the pain and guilt in the padawan’s voice and eyes were proof that he was a _person_ , unlike any other, and it should be cherished and not banished from daring to have a heart. He felt his shirt getting wet around the colar, but it didn’t matter. The tears would help him now, _feeling_ instead of denying would allow him to move on. The terrible guilt that came from not being able to be indifferent was a treasure, not a curse.

 

Still, the pain needed to be soothed, and in his protectiveness, he felt the need to help. Just his arms were not enough, and he was ready to give much more if it meant that Merlin would find peace without completely giving up on feeling. He loved his sister, and he liked Gaius well, but he hoped that Merlin would never become like them: distant and aloof, almost uncaring. No, Merlin should not have his big heart used against him again.

 

“You did not fail me,” he told Merlin, finally. “I’m still here. I’m safe.”

 

Merlin’s head moved back, looking at his eyes, as if the silver lining of his words were the one thing he needed. There was something incredibly powerful in his stare, something pleading, fragile and wonderful. His whole face was open to him, none of the peace and serenity that he had glimpse whenever Merlin felt it was important to look the part of a Jedi. The intensity in his flushed cheeks and parted lips was almost overpowering, but the blue eyes, so clear of malice, so full of wonder, were the hardest of all to resist.

 

It was a simple tilt of head, but it made Arthur’s body tremble with something he had wished to deny. He felt as the padawan was rocked by the same feeling, and they couldn’t quite look away, lost in the moment when their eyes had met. Arthur would never be able to say exactly how everything changed around them, the air seeming to rush from his lungs, his eyes incapable of capturing the moment, his fingers deeply interlaced in Merlin’s back, keeping him close, safe and sound, protecting him from his own demons.

 

The feeling of their lips touching was akin to an electric shock and he gasped, hands moving up quickly to hold Merlin’s head in place as he pressed his mouth harder against the padawan’s. The Jedi tightened his grip as well, moving from fabric to arms, as if making sure he was real. Their mouths opened, tongues rushing forward, but it was loss not greed that moved them. They kissed as if kissing was breathing, as if it was natural, as if it was needed. All thoughts fled his mind and there was nothing but the skin on Merlin’s face, his hair, his lips, the warmth of their bodies against each other, the one thing that could keep the cold universe at bay.

 

It ended as it started: with neither and both moving at once. They stared at each other again, and Arthur _knew_ what he should do — what he should _not_ do, that this was a mistake like no other, that it was the wrong moment and possibly the worst person, that it was a risk they should not take, but he feared that he could avoid it. The loyalty and adoration shone clearly in Merlin’s eyes, hiding a bit of the pain, and he didn’t know what to do. He didn’t know what he wanted to do.

 

Merlin did not wait for him to be ready, though, stepping backwards and way from his embrace. His lightsaber flew from the ground to his hand, and he clipped it to his belt, the tremor in his hands almost gone. For a second, he closed his eyes, and Arthur had no idea what to do, or how to act, but he shouldn’t have worried.

 

Squaring his shoulders, Merlin once again stood straight, all feelings giving away to a calm that seemed to have eluded him in the last couple days, as if all his rebellion was spent and he was now ready to once more do his duty. Arthur just couldn’t say if this was a good or a bad thing.

 

 

 

 


	10. Chapter 10

 

Merlin wanted to believe he had regained his balance, but once his holocommunicator beeped on his belt, he felt the dread taking power of him again. Very few people would be calling him now, and he felt ready to face none of them. Arthur looked at him, raising his eyebrow as if questioning why the call was not answered, and there was little he could do but sigh and fish it from the compartment it was. As he pressed the button to accept it, he saw Mordred’s image floating in blue, a bit out of focus from static and showing only his torso. The string of beeps that floated through the air told Merlin he was in space.

 

“You always tell me not to call when piloting,” he offered in lieu of hello, aiming for a lightness that was far from real.

 

“That’s because your flying is atrocious enough as it is,” was the quick comeback, and Merlin felt a chuckle being torn from him. It was not forced, but it still sounded hollow

 

Mordred frowned at him for a second, clearly noticing something off, before looking past Merlin and to Arthur. He inclined his head, acknowledging the King.

 

“Your Majesty,” his master said, as if he had been caught doing something wrong. “You’ll be glad to hear that I managed to track down the Bounty Hunter responsible for the attack against your person. He escaped before he could be fully interrogated, but I’ve managed to put a transmitter on his ship and I’m pursuing him right now.”

 

“You’re pursuing someone in space and _making a holocall_? _”_ Merlin questioned, a bit surprised and somewhat shocked.

 

“I’m following him from afar, hoping to find out _who_ he’s trying to reach,” explained the older Jedi, smirking a bit. “Think smart, not fast.”

 

“I’m confident in your skills, Master Mordred,” Arthur replied, sounding serious and Merlin turned to watch in disbelief.

 

“I appreciate your confidence, sire;” he replied, but it was clearly not what he wanted to say. “I hope your majesty won’t mind if I take a few minutes to talk privately to my padawan?”

 

Merlin tensed up immediately at that, unsure of what to expect. They had just returned to The Isle of the Blessed, and there should be nothing around that immediately attracted Mordred’s attention to the events of the last couple of days. On the other hand, it was unlikely that he had called just to update Arthur on the progress of his mission, it was not how the Jedi operated. He might have found out something that was important that Merlin knew, perhaps some new danger, a warning. Now more than ever, he was decided not to fail on his duty of keeping Arthur safe. He’d not make the same mistake twice.

 

“Of course,” Arthur said, and immediately he left the room.

 

For a second there was silence, and Merlin caught himself staring at the delicate traces in the palace’s architecture, the columns filled with arabesques, the touches of gold against white marble; anything but his Master’s eyes.

 

“Looks like a peaceful place,” Mordred offered, and he nodded.

 

“It is. Like the inner parts of the Temple. It was the late queen’s favourite residence.”

 

It was his master’s turn to agree with his head, before setting his eyes on Merlin’s. Even through the space dividing them, even across the holonet nodes and the signal hopping through different areas, reflecting on centrals, repeating on waves, he could not escape the hold of that look. As always, Mordred’s eyes were soft, almost peaceful if not for, the slightest trace of worry marking the outer corners; and they seemed capable of seeing far, far beyond what his image should show, the very depths of his soul. When they were coming to Camelot, seeming now so long ago, Merlin had told Arthur that were no secrets between them — there couldn’t be, not when practice and experience allowed them to read each other like a open book, not when their signatures in the Force seemed to mold themselves to each other, perfectly in sync, not when they had formed a bond so deep. Now, however, the torment he kept fighting to control made it impossible for him to know what the other Jedi was thinking.

 

“What happened?” his tone was gentle, but Merlin automatically shook his head, denying everything in a burst of apprehension.

 

“No changes here.”

 

Mordred, of course, was not fooled by his denial, and he managed to notice the hurt flashing through his eyes for a second. Then, his master was taking a deep breath and speaking again.

 

“I thought we had built a relationship of trust. I thought we were past the lying and rebelling. Never before were you afraid of me,” there was little he could say to that, but it _was_ true that for all Arthur’s words, he was scared of letting him know the truth. “I’ve felt your distress, your pain — your anger. I may not know the reason, but I know _something_ happened. Don’t shut me out, Merlin.”

 

He was not ready to face the man, to let him know the size of his failure, how deeply he had fallen. There was little that felt more unbearable to him than disappointing Mordred. All the things that his master had sacrificed for him, all the things they had shared, all he had learnt told him it was better to keep his secrets close to heart unless he meant to be expelled from the Order. Mordred would never condone his actions — he’d never truly understand the size of his grief, the depth of his pain, the intensity of his guilt. No Jedi was supposed to feel that much, they were expected to let go of emotions, not acting on them, and they certainly couldn’t be used to justify his actions. No, they’d show compassion to an outsider in such situation, but they’d still judge his actions. To a member, no mercy should be expected, for it went against the very code. For a split second he considered just walking away before being thrown out, taking the decisions in his on hands, living outside of their confines.

 

Then, it came crashing down on him again: there was no other place for him, no other home. Nothing to come back to, no place where he could hide, no one to care for him, not anymore. The Order was all that he had left, and even that, he was sure to lose when his actions were known. He felt his eyes burn with a fresh wave of tears threatening to spill, and struggled to keep them inside, blinking forcefully. A crease appeared in Mordred’s forehead, and suddenly none of it matter: he could not deny him anything, certainly not the truth, and if he was found wanting, it’d be a fair judgement, one that he certainly deserved.

 

The words were torn out of him, as if he could no longer hold it in. The terrible ire that had forced his hand long dissipated, and sorrow overflowing through the sounds he made, the explanations that earned no understanding, the retelling of every wrong decision he made — all the ways he had ruined himself, shamed his master, denigrated their Order. He held nothing back, stifling any instinct of self-protection in name of honesty. In this, at least, he’d be true.

 

Mordred said nothing while he spoke, just observed, his expression moving from worry to surprise, from surprise to disappointment, and from disappointment to compassion. It ripped through Merlin’s soul, because it was not warranted. His cheeks burnt as he told his master how it had taken Arthur’s interference for him to stop and see reason, he did not hid that he had accepted consolation, and omitted completely Camelot’s sovereign declarations that the older Jedi would forgive him. He’d not burden him with even more, with other people’s perceptions, with political considerations. He expected the condemnation to be as brutal as his actions.

 

“Oh, Merlin…” he said, at last, once he had spent out all his words. “I’m so sorry…”

 

The padawan’s head hung down, unable to endure the distant sympathy that was the trademark of their kind. The pain was still too fresh for empty words.

 

“I am aware of my failures, master,” was all he said.

 

“No one expects you to be infallible. Even full knights…”

 

“I’m ready for whatever punishment the Council sees as fit…” he shuddered, imagining what sort of ritual would be done to discharge him, humbling himself in front of all. He had been prideful, and he’d now be brought low, by one one’s fault but his own.

 

“The council?” Echoed his master, his voice distant. “Yes, they should be informed of her passing — they need to know about the Knights of Medir’s awakening — how did you beat them?”

 

Merlin shrugged, he hadn’t been paying attention.

 

“You’d have to ask Arthur.”

 

“And I shall — eventually. They’ll also have to be told about the artifact, it’s most likely dangerous, but…” A cold shiver ran through his body as he tried to ready himself for the blow that was about the come. “The rest of it — I see no reason to bother them with it.”

 

Merlin’s head moved up sharply, unable to believe what he had just heard. Twice he blinked to make sure he was not dreaming, trying to make sure his brain was not deceiving him again.

 

“What?”

 

“They have bigger concerns than your outburst, specially when you clearly repent it all,” he sighed, sounding tired, and glanced at something in this screen before continuing. “I’m not saying that you’ll suffer no punishment, but unless Camelot brings it to the Order’s attention, I see no reason to involve the Council in this.”

 

To say he was absolutely gobsmacked by what he had heard would be a tremendous understatement.

 

“No council?”

 

“I’m not involving them,” Mordred repeated, and Merlin could just shake his head.

 

“But — I broke the code! I let my emotions to get better of me!”

 

“Yes, and now you know how easy, how tempting in the path to the Dark Side. You’ll not make this mistake again.”

 

He wished he could have his master’s confidence, but he did not. Mordred always saw the best in people,  but Merlin had grown up in too harsh an environment to be so blind to his own faults.

 

“I don’t know that I can,” he confessed, finally. “When I was first tested, they told me I was too attached to my mother. They were right. Again and again I’ve been admonished that attachments lead to emotions one cannot control, and I _felt in my bones_ how true this is. Still, I don’t know that I will be ever able to _not feel_ anything, to just shut my heart completely out — I could pretend, but I don’t think I can completely abdicate them.”

 

“Abdicated them…?” Mordred repeated, confused. “Is that what you think, my padawan? That Jedi do not feel? Did I fail you this much?” Seeing his master doubt himself because he was inadequate broke Merlin’s heart even more, but before he could reassure him that he had nothing to do with it, Mordred continued. “No, we’d be no better than droids if we did not feel at all…”

 

“I know — compassion and understanding…”

 

“That’s not what I meant,” the other Jedi interrupted, his face showing pain. “Oh, Merlin — this is on me. I’ve been trying so hard to — make up for it, to step into Nimueh’s shoes — no. A Jedi strives to be compassionate and understanding, but that does not mean we do not feel pain, or some anger, or _love_. It’s not about not feeling or pretending not to, is about not letting it rule your actions instead of your head, its about listening the will of the Force before your own will. Often I’ve thought that one of the biggest failures of the Order is that we’re so distant, so insulated in ourselves that we’ve lost the ability to truly see and understand common people, the very people we’re meant to protect. Your heart is not your downfall, even if it sets you apart: it allows you to understand those that we are supposed to help better than any other Jedi I know. It makes you greater — better. It makes you put others ahead of yourself again and again. In time, you’ll learn to temper that with reason, and it’ll make you the greatest in all of us.”

 

He could only shake his head, he was not worth of Mordred’s praise, his faith was suffocating, and nothing he had done could be excused. Merlin felt Mordred’s nudge through the force as if they were face to face and his master’s finger had moved his chin up, forcing the padawan to face him. Blinking away the tears, looked at the man that had taken care of him for the last decade, wondering what he had done to gain such a person in his life, how he could justify his unending support and belief.

 

“You’re still just a padawan,” Mordred sighed, shaking his head. “There’s much you need to learn. Do not fall into self-flagellation, it will not help and it leads to self-indulgence, your penance is not yours to decide, nor we have the time for it now. Events are taking shape fast, and I need you ready to do your duty, by Arthur’s side, keeping him safe — I fear there’s far too much at stake than any of us thought before; and we the things I’ve learnt worry me. I have but a few minutes until I have to close in on the Bounty Hunter, so listen closely to what I have to say.”

 

His master would not be denied and there was nothing for him to do but to listen to the incredible tale that he was now sharing, not realising that what he heard was about to change the whole fate of the galaxy.

 

* * *

 

 

Mordred’s head was taken away from his padawan’s problems soon after they finished their holocall, for it had become clear that the mercenary was slowing down. He tried to remain inconspicuous and even directed himself as if he intended to continue moving towards the Corellian Run instead of decelerating to dive into the Arkanis Sector as the Bounty Hunter had. The fact that it was a well-travelled region helped; there were many other ships in the area, which made disappearing easier. Most of them were, more likely than not, carrying illegal products or transporting people keen to disappear. Sitting in a triple border between Republic, Separatist and Hutt space, it attracted all sorts of attention.

 

The ship he was tracking took a wide turn, as if heading to Tatooine. It would be a safe place for someone like him, but Mordred doubted the Hutts were behind the assassination attempts. They were very keen on staying out of Republic affairs, hoping that the Republic would do the same. He allowed his ship to pass the path by a bit more than one parsec before returning. He did not have a visual on the other transport, but on the map he could see when it passed Tatooine by, staying far away from its double suns, and moving ahead.

 

I4 was more than capable of adjusting the course accordingly, and he started analysing the area where the man was headed. The navigation system informed him their final destination would be Genosis. It also warned him that it was an inhospitable planet, given to radiation and sandstorms, with a diminutive core that made it’s gravity weaker than standard. There was not much of a magnetic field, though the atmosphere was dense — so much that he’d need help breathing, but enough that it’d tire those unaccustomed to it more easily. Even from space it was easy to see that water was scarce, and geographical readings spoke of deserts, canyons and rocks. Mordred thoughts went back to when he was a youngling in the temple, and the lessons that had tried to provide him with as much knowledge as possible about the galaxy.

 

He recalled something about the Old Republic days, when the Sith had been a galaxy-wide threat, and gladiator arenas. It had been in Genosis that Mandalore The Lesser had first risen to prominence and risen enough through the ranks that he was able to claim the ultimate title for his scattered people. Driven by the Imperial Intelligence, he had rallied them all and allied them with the Empire, much to the Republic’s chagrin. The Genosians, however, had remained as neutral as they could, counting on the Hutts to protect their interests. During the chaos that reigned during the that period, the Republic had let go of the system as it fought desperately not to succumb to the Empire and for the longest time, the whole Arkanis sector had been forgotten by all but the Hutts.

 

It had been but a few centuries that they had once again regained contact — much to the delight of the Traders Union, since the engineering talented natives could build much but lacked the natural resources to do so in scale. It was a weird world, in which the savagery of gladiator arenas walked hand in hand with a fine built technology, fabrics hiding under rock spires, striving for perfection. They were _not_ the type to hire bounty hunters, but there had been a unmistakable traditional mandalorian design to the man’s armour, and there may be more than one reason for him to reach to it.

 

Mordred observed the fine rings that adorned the planet’s equator, wishing he could bypass them altogether. However, the mercenary had gone through the middle of them, and it was not worth the risk of losing track of him. Letting go of the outer circle that allowed his fighter to flow through outer space, he speed up towards the rock ring. The prescience allowed him to speed up while the other slowed to avoid the asteroids, and he had almost gotten a visual back when I4 started beeping at him.

 

Clearly he hadn’t been as discreet as he had hoped, because the other ship was now starting to attack. Something had been dropped from the back, and the readings told him they were seismic charges had been deployed against them. It was not good.

 

“Hold still,” he instructed the astromech, and moving the ship to manual control, he readied himself for the changes around him.

 

As soon as the bomb hit the first bit of rock, it exploded in something that would only be described as a wave. The force of it was intense enough to shred many of the asteroids in the vicinity, their pieces speeding up and hitting other, causing an ripple through the field. What had been static now kept moving, trying to balance itself between the planet’s gravitational pull and the nothingness outside of it. Mordred dived quickly for a few meters before going back up, trying to avoid the stones all around him. I4 kept warning him of the danger, but he was doing all he could do to keep them safe.

 

The mercenary lost no time in waiting for the balance of the area to be regained, dropping another charge. It was clear that he cared for his life as little as he cared the lives of others, and once again Mordred found himself forced to improvise, to rely on hints from the Force to avoid certain death. Merlin would have loved the challenge that it represented, sharp curves and steep drops, but it only made Mordred feel annoyed. The third charged followed the second almost immediately, and through the constant moving landscape he completely lost visual on the other ship.

 

A beep from the astromech was the answer, the ship’s readings were confused by the flying debris, but his copilot seemed certain of where they had headed. Looking at the indication it had added to the map, Mordred accelerated, veering towards the reinforced red circle. Once he could see the marked place, he frowned.

 

“This is another rock! Are you sure about this, I4?”

 

The text in this screen was clear.

 

Affirmative! // Hollow cave // Exit secured // Ideal for securing the enemy ship.

 

 

Doubts would not help in the slightest. Praying that the droid was right, he drove inside the hole appearing in the middle of the rock, rushing and hoping he’d catch up before they were outside. It was dark and narrow, the path kept moving and the pressure inside the asteroid was nothing like the space outside. Mordred adapted fast, trusting on his instincts to avoid bumping on the walls. I4 had been right: it _was_ the ideal space for securing the enemy ship; if he deployed the electronet that his starfighter carried to it, there would be no way for the bigger transport to avoid it in such cramped quarters.

 

It seemed, however, that he was too far behind: the outside of the asteroid appeared with no sign of the other ship. Mordred slowed down a bit, trying to recover the signal, trying to figure out where exactly he was in relation to the planet. The scanners were coming back clean, aftermath of the movements created by the bomb increasing the natural interference and keeping him safe. For a moment, he despaired in having completely lost him, driven into a trap by a man used to fighting against the odds. The next one, he learnt it was not exactly the case.

 

No hunter would enjoy being chased, and it shouldn’t surprise anyone that he moved to the offensive. The astromech whirled wildly as the freighter appeared behind the starfighter, showering them with lasers. Raising the back shields, Mordred did his best to avoid them, his stomach dropping with the inside manoeuvres that were required to stay out of the fire. While the shields could probably take the small damage they’d cause, the Jedi had a feeling that it was far from being the only weapon in his arsenal and it was better to stay prepared for the next.

 

Patience seemed to be running thin on the adversary, which made the guardian happier. Tension and anxiety often led to mistakes, and if there was one thing that he had learnt about Raphael was that he was overconfident. The panels informed them that he was being followed by a tracker missile, and he almost grinned at the predictability of the man.

 

“Lower the shields, I4.”

 

Action not advised! // GRAVE DANGER! // Extermination probability of 98.8%

 

 

“Just — lower the shields. Trust me on this one.”

 

Opposition remarked. // Shields lowered.

 

 

“Now, open the back latch. Let them recycle our spares.”

 

There was no translation for the long whistle that the astromech let out at it, and soon the extra pieces that were often kept on the back in case of emergency repairs floated through the asteroid field. Mordred hoped they’d be enough to halt the missile and was gratified at when he saw the explosion on the rearview screen.

 

It was not enough to discourage the bounty hunter, but Mordred had not expected it to be. Raising his shields back, he did his best to get one of the floating stones between himself and the missile, but the weapon’s trackers were good. He needed three deep dives before he managed to make it explode on one of it instead of straight on the ship, and they were showered by the debris. He had expected it to be a minor issue, but the shields felt to 50%.

 

Shield generator hit. // Shields operation at just half-capacity. // Deflection ability at peak for one more shot.// Further engagement discouraged.

 

 

“Oh, great,” he muttered, wondering when I4 had become so opinionated. Maybe he should get Merlin his own astromech droid before he completely spoilt his. “Keep the shields up, we’ll have to be smart to lose them here.”

 

As the third missile left the Bounty Hunter’s ship, Mordred veered to the right, aiming at one particularly big rock. It was a risky thing to do, requiring perfect timing and possibly more skill than he had to dispose — one that would make Merlin proud, no doubt, which was all the more reason never to tell him. He observed the slow turn of the large object, considering his options. Eventually, he found exactly what he was looking for. The missile was closing in quickly, and the man would be expecting some fireworks to accompany the final hit. Mordred was willing to comply — it was best if he had a false sense of security.

 

Had they been in the air, the missile would be audible now, but outside of the atmosphere he had only the metrics to warn him that his time was running out. Pulling the wheel completely to the right at the last moment, he almost hit his exhauster to one of the smallest rocks in the area. The Jedi could only hope it’d be enough.

 

The tracker aimed perfectly at the area where the two were pretty much touching, Mordred’s finger pressed the power at the exact time of impact. Although the shields absorbed the damage of the explosion, it was strong enough to spill to the rock, that was engulfed by fire for a moment before it died in the absence of air.

 

“ALL OFF, LET IT DRIFT!” he called out, and for once I4 did not question, turning off the systems that did not respond directly to the main panel.

 

Without its on gravity stabilisers to keep it afloat, the starfighter was pulled towards the larger rock, and where Mordred had before used abruptness in his favour, now he employed a more gentle approach, using the wheel to make them park at the moving surface. No power meant they were giving out no signal whatsoever, and it’d led the mercenary to believe they had been eliminated. As the rotation of the asteroid hid them from view of those descending to the planet, Mordred hoped his gamble had paid off.

 

After a few seconds, I4 whistled, and while the panel was off and he could not see the translation, he didn’t need it.

 

The hunter had taken the bait and was now descending towards Genosis.

 

Counting to a hundred, Mordred prepared to follow.

 

* * *

 

 

 

Once Merlin rejoined him, Arthur did not want to pry on his personal conversation with Mordred. It was clear that something had changed — perhaps unburdening himself to his master was exactly what he needed — but now he was absolutely back in focus, more than Arthur had seen at any point before. Standing up, hands behind his back in a position that resembled a soldier wanting for orders, the Jedi observed the two men in the room.

 

“You haven’t told me yet how you managed to defeat the knights of medhir,” there was intense concentration on his look. “When he first fought them, it seemed they could not be stopped, and yet, you’ve destroyed them all.”

 

Instead of trying to explain it all, Arthur pulled his new sword from where it was resting, on the old one’s scabbard, and Merlin’s head took a sharp turn towards it, his eyes enquiring.

 

“An old legend of Camelot,” his voice was soft, for he still could not believe what had happened. “A sword, forged in dragonfire, capable of vanquishing any enemies.”

 

“And you happened to stumble on it just now?” There was mockery in the Jedi’s voice, but it was good-natured, all of the previous anguish seemed to have vanished at the sight of the older Jedi.

 

“Pulled it out of a stone, actually,” he deadpanned. Seeing the mirth in the padawan’s eyes was a reward in itself.

 

Merlin walked closer and his hand moved as if to touch it. Arthur saw through the corner of his eye when Leon flinched, as if something as holy shouldn’t be held by outsiders, but Arthur did not mind. Instead, he offered the heavy weapon to the younger man, letting him pick it up. The dance of his long fingers on the blade were like a caress as he analysed one side of it and then the other. It was clear that the engravings had caught his attention by the way Merlin kept feeling around them, as if willing its meaning to be known.

 

“The markings…” He started, and Arthur gave a small shrug.

 

“Words, of some kind, I’ve never seen the like…”

 

“They’re not the same,” continued the padawan, looking at the weapon with a frown. “These words… it’s an advice — perhaps a warning.”

 

“Can you read it?” asked Leon, dumbfounded by it, and there was a tiny movement of uncertainty in the padawan’s frame. His gazed seemed to be  requesting Arthur’s permission, and the king, who had been curious since he had first laid eyes on the sword, gestured for him to speak.

 

“This side says ‘pick me up’,” he said, and it was funny how the sword looked as much at ease in Merlin’s more delicate fingers as in Arthur’s warrior ones, as if it one single weapon could possibly fit both. “The other one is ‘cast me away.’”

 

They stood in silence for a moment, before handed it back to Arthur, pommel first.

 

“What is the story, then?” he asked, but Arthur noticed that he had avoided his eyes and was staring at Leon instead.

 

“According to the legend, it was forged in the dragon’s breath, and can kill anything, even that which is already dead. It was granted to Bruta, called the saviour King of Camelot, and he used it to stop the army of undead knights that had been summoned by his sister-in-law to conquer the land. The story says he defeated all but a handful of the knights of Medhir using it, and shattered the altar that in which she had kept the sacred fire burning to keep them alive. Then, her army was defeated, and he finally rose to rule. He was then warned that the sword did not belong to him but to one of his descents, yet to be born, and that it should not be yielded lightly or it’d bring about the destruction of Camelot; that only the uniter of Albion could safely use it. To guarantee that no one but the right heir would have it, he travelled to a secret location, where he stick the sword to a stone, and the dragon used its magic to make sure that only the Once and Future King would be able to retrieve it in his time of need.”

 

He had heard the story before, of course, for all children in Camelot did. He also knew his First Knight was not one to believe in superstitious nonsense, that while he trusted Morgana’s words above all others, he was distrustful of prophecies and divination. Yet, now he looked at Arthur with such an open awe that it made him feel uncomfortable. He had done nothing to be called the uniter of Albion, and he seriously doubted that he’d fit the tales of the Once and Future King; he was a flawed man, not some mythical hero. Arthur felt Merlin’s eyes on him, and turned towards the padawan, pleading to be seen as just a man, and while it was clear that something on the story had resonated within him, his eyes were understanding instead of adoring.

 

“What truly happened we may never know — Bruta enjoyed the far fetched version far too much and never allowed for precise register to be made of his initial war,” he offered, finally, and Merlin assented.

 

“One thing we may be sure that it is true — this sword can vanquish even what which has no life. You should keep it. It’ll serve you well.”

 

Arthur scoffed, because this was ridiculous. Yes, he had pulled the weapon from the rock, and it had given him an impossible edge against the enemies that surrounded them. Claiming it for himself, though, would be also claiming a mantle that he had no wish to bear.

 

“You speak as if it had its own will — as if if had _chose_ me.”

 

Merlin gave him smile that was out of place with his youth, wisdom shining from the eyes that not so long before had shown desperation.

 

“Why? Do you think it does not?” He pulled his lightsaber from his belt, making it float with a gesture from his hand. “You know, younglings that are about to become padawans are sent to Illum to build their lightsaber.”

 

It was something he was aware of, and he did not see the relevance of it to the conversation.

 

“Alone, we brave the frozen caves, filled with crystals,” he continued, clearly remembering his own incursion to it. “There are many there, and all of them can be harvested to create lightsabers — but that does not mean you can use _any_ of them. If a youngling decides to be lazy and choose whatever crystal instead of searching his own through the Force, they’ll find out that their lightsabers do not work, because their signature and the crystal’s do not match. They may be just rocks, and have no _will_ as we understand it, but they, too, are part of nature, and each of them are as unique as sentient being are. Trying to build a lightsaber with the wrong crystal may cause it to fizz out or even explode, but when you find the right one…”

 

He had kept the weapon floating between them, and now without a single extra gesture, Arthur saw it dismantle itself, each of the parts separating, floating in the air, the emerald crystal inside shining against the light pouring from the arched doors. He looked up, at Merlin’s eyes, and the reflex of the sun on them made them look almost golden. As Merlin’s fingers joined his thumb, the disassembled parts of the lightsaber came back together smoothly, and soon it looked as if he had never been touched.

“… It just fits,” he continued, with a simple smile. “The same is true for metals, I am sure. They’re taken from the bowels of the Earth, not created by machines. There’s nothing artificial about them. And I’m sure you think there are many more people, other rulers, wiser or older, — even, maybe, your father —  who you think would be more deserving of the honour, but, for better or worse, the sword has chosen _you_ , and you should keep it.”

 

Against those words, Arthur had no argument, nothing to do but to accept what had been given to him. All the could do was hope that he’d prove to be worthy of it.

 

 

* * *

 

 

The Planet’s surface was just as arid and inhospitable as it had promised from outer space. Red and oranges spread through up to the horizon, in arid planes and rocks; the very air spread the colours through flying sand. Incongruous patches of gray and silver showed landing pads, but even through those it was all desert: there was no buzz of life, nothing that could be seen from the surface. The lives and hives of the Genosians were all hidden from view.

 

All in all, a good place to hide.

 

Mordred allowed I4 to scan for the best location for them to descend, as close as possible to the place where the bounty hunter’s ship had landed. His parking space was partially hidden by one of the many rocks, though this one was no nature gift. Sweat and blood had built the tower, spiralling upwards in irregular semi-circles that imitated the natural patterns; centuries fighting to resist the harsh winds had further smoothed its lines. It was imposing — a true proof of the genius in their engineering. Mordred pulled his cloak close to his body as he walked inside.

 

If the outside reflected the wisdom of biology, the inside was clearly the work of an artistic inclined civilisation. The harsh stones slowly gave way to engraved patterns, lines and curves of the finest drawings delicately sculpted by the finest artisans. Not a single soul could be seen as the corridor gave way to state rooms, grand spaces filled only by the almost religious architecture that gave Mordred the feeling of walking on holy ground, as if it had been built to worship tribal gods he knew nothing about, an invader.

 

Not the place one would expect to find a murderer, unless he was hoping for absolution.

 

The Jedi kept on walking inside, trying to discover what would have brought the man here. The beautiful room was but a balcony, from where he could see stairs, curves upon curves of them, leading all the way down. He could not see where it led, for white vapor rose from the bottom, shrouding it all in hot mist. Taking a deep breath, he got himself ready for the descent.

 

He could not have counted the steps if he wanted to, for they seemed to melt one into the other, unlike any sort of stairs he had walked before. This was not simply a way of coming down, he could see, it was supposed to reenact a mystery — though which, he could not say. Many cultures had their own stories about the descent that was made; how it transformed the spirit, what could be found underneath that was nothing but the very truth of your being. Mordred had gone through similar things — during his training, during his trials, down the belly of Camelot where the boy had died and the Jedi had been born; and now he felt the same sense of danger lurking around, as if he was the predator and prey at once. Down and down he went, until there was nothing he could see: up or down, it was all hidden by fog. He could hear nothing save his own heartbeat, for all other sounds were muffled in the silent stairs, and nothing but the increasing heat marked that he was indeed moving.

 

Eventually, it reached him: a sound no one that had been raised in Coruscant could never forget; the grinding of metal upon metal as huge machines worked, the drumming of gigantic hammers trying to shape things into being. Looking down from the intricately sculpted balcony, Mordred could see that it was indeed an immense factory, spreading down for levels until it disappeared in more mist. He stared at the movement for a while, trying to make out the shapes and meanings of what was being produced — and the earthy tones used in the metal made it difficult for him to figure out what they were, but once his mind finally put it together, it was clear as day.

 

He’d never have forgotten the shape of that face, the elongated head and two eyes dead eyes, the skeletal way it was attached to the body, so fragile and yet a part of his nightmares. He had seen droids like those before — fought them. They were no challenge, but he would never look at them without thinking of Camelot and of the tragic ending to that mission. Rows and rows, thousands of units were being manufactured under his feet and that did not bode well for Chancellor Uther peace talks.

 

For it was clear to him now that he had just stumbled on the second army being created for a war that both sides claimed not to want. The Republic did not make droid orders to the Genosians, specially not in this scale, and one of the main reasons why they had never struck big deals with the government was that Genosian products were too expensive — they had the quality and they knew they could name their price and any private company would pay without a hitch because their name was synonym to excellence. The only ones that could afford an army this size were the big corporate conglomerates like the Trade Federation.

 

Which, of course, made sense. Although Justice _still_ hadn’t reached a final decision in the Camelot vs Trade Federation case, in the last decade the two powers had not dealt with each other at all. The legal battle was ongoing, and Arthur’s outspokenness and his charisma had hurt the Trade Federation’s standing with the people of the Inner Rim  & Core, which impacted on their finances. Vice-Roy Alined, specially, was known to make incredibly spiteful comments about the King, the sort that him sound like some sort of spurned lover. It would not surprise anyone if he were to hire a bounty hunter to make sure that Arthur wouldn’t get in his way once more. If the droid production was a sign that they were ready to support and finance Count Peter’s political manoeuvre's, the Republic would be in a terrible position.

 

Turning around, Mordred walked away from the factory floor underneath, coming back to the maze of hallways and corridors that were part of the complex. Deep down beneath the earth, he  strained his ears for any sign of sapient beings or any other source of information. Trusting the Force to guide him, he turned left, then left again, coming to a room in which circular stairs led up into a spire until it disappeared above. One step at a time, he re-traced his previous path, up now instead of down, towards the dying red light of their sun. Red dust clung to his robes like blood, and his legs would have turned stiff if not for the techniques he learnt as a Jedi, and still he continued. Coming up he was looking for guidance, for illumination, for answers that had been eluding him for far too long.

 

He had stopped counting the steps or the minutes before he heard voices.

 

“We’re running at maximum capacity,” said the first voice, prompting Mordred to hide behind one of the pillars. However, the speakers were not in the same level as he was, but at least two levels bellow from what he could judge. Leaning forwards over the balcony he stared down in order to observe the party that had come to inspect the factory production. From the midst of the fog, first he could see the tall, imposing figure of the Archduke; his long limbs swinging along his body, his dark translucent wings down as he walked in honour of his company that could not fly. Mordred could not see his eyes, or his face with it’s long leather fringes; but the richly crafted clothing studded with precious stones and embroidered with gold left little doubt of the identity of the Geonosian. Next to him, walked Viceroy Alined, his gray-green skin floppier than the Jedi remembered, showing the effects of the decade that had passed since he had gambled into invading Camelot. His suspicious eyes kept darting around, as if he could not help but to expect an attack. He was followed, as usual, by his faithful companion, Trickler, who seemed deceptively carefree. The jester’s dark eyes seemed to scan the upper levels, as if he could sense Mordred’s eyes, which made the Jedi lean backwards, allowing the shadows to envelop him. He missed the next two figures to walk by, but there was no doubt about the identity of the man closing the procession.

 

Mordred had grown up under those cold blue eyes, always analysing everything around them. Now, as he walked behind the rest of them, he observed his allies much the same way he had evaluated padawans in their lightsaber training. His hair had lost some of the golden glow that had made it shine when he was a Jedi, but the silver strands gave a new dignity to his face. Age seemed to be finally catching up with him, the once powerful shoulders were no longer muscular, and yet his posture was still that of a duellist. His cat-green eyes shone in amusement as he listened to the Geonosian and the Neimodian discussing the schedule and merits of the new droids that the Trade Federation had commissioned; as if they were almost beneath his notice. Even past his prime, he could still exude the raw magnetism and charm that shone in Mordred’s childhood and teenager memories.

 

He walked ahead, following their footsteps, trying to keep up with the conversation — it did not seem like some simple business deal, Count Peter would not deem it worth of his time unless there was something more to it.

 

“I’m sure you’ll find it all to your satisfaction,” he finally interrupted, his voice smooth as ever. “Now, all we need is to cajole the Commerce GUild and the Corporate Alliance to join us in the treaty and there will be no match for us in this galaxy.”

 

That gave Viceroy Alined a pause, and he turned his back on the Archduke and towards the politician that had brought them all together. His eyelids came closer together, in an undeniable expression of distrust.

 

“Is the King dead?” he asked, pointedly, and there could be very little doubt about the identity of the victim. “I’ve told you before — I will sign nothing and commit myself to nothing until the Pendragon spawn’s head is on my desk. Those were our terms.”

 

Count Peter answered with a disarming smile, as if they had been discussing the weather or the latest Opera in Coruscant instead of the cold blooded murder of a planet’s sovereign for political gain.

 

“He’ll be out of the way soon, Alined. When have I ever failed after giving my word? I’m sure this bounty hunter can do the deed — and if he can’t, well. Do not forget that while Arthur Pendragon may have gained some renown as a warrior, but _I_ have been winning duelling tournaments since his father was still in his nappies — I’ll make short work out of him.”

 

The idea seemed to amuse the Neimodian, as if he’d take a special pleasure in Arthur being humbled by a man old enough to be his grandfather. He assented and turned back towards the archduke, following him into a door that led into a different room. After a couple of minutes, once he was sure that they would not return, Mordred climbed on the rail that made the hallway secure and pulled from his sash the utility string that was part of their basic equipment. With a sure swirl of his arm, he threw it on the other side. The cord got around the opposing rail, curling around it like a snake in a tree branch. After a pull to test that it was safe, Mordred jumped down, using the rope to swing himself to the correct side. The sound of his feet landing sounded strangely loud to his own ears, but no one showed up to question his presence. Slowly, he circled the door that the embassy had entered in, wondering if there would be any way to reach them without being found.

 

It took him a while, walking slowly and clinging to shadows to arrive at a place where he could eavesdrop on them. From the alcove he had reached, Mordred could see the conference room where a dozen or so representatives sat. Some of them he knew — bankers and economical groups, along with some important commercial planets. They were all gazing towards Count Peter, as if enchanted by his natural charm, as he made what surely was a speech carefully crafted to drawn them all into his alliance.

 

“Your support will allow for hundreds of systems to join the cause, gentlemen. As we abolish the trade barriers, they’ll be strengthened and their economical power will develop much faster — this treaty gives you the chance to raise your profits beyond your wildest dreams. More than that, it will ensure that your voices will be heard, not discarded as unimportant merely because you represent companies. The Republic may choose to ignore the fact that besides ensuring the health of their economy, you provide for hundreds of species and clans — but I assure you, my friends, this will not happen here. We value not only your money, but also the human capital you provide.”

 

It was not hard to gauge the mood in the room, what Count Peter was now offering was exactly what these representatives had been fighting for in the last couple of centuries. There was little they wished more than to be considered equals to civilian systems all while retaining the privileges of their rank. It had always been their politic to use their monetary power to enforce their will on those less powerful. A number of corruption schemes were found every decade with indecent amounts of money involved in buying and paying for results, political actions, even the buying of former Supreme Chancellors themselves. There was a reason why, in spite of all the hard evidence, neither Viceroy Alined nor any part of the Trade Federation had been punished by the Camelot blockade. Whispers said that, had it not been for Uther, Camelot would have turned their back from the Republic long ago — but, even discarding his father, Arthur would never ally himself to the same powers that had made his people suffer.

 

“The Trade Federation has already pledged their support,” the former Jedi continued, with a nod towards the Neimoidian. “The power in their droid battalions, when combined with yours, will mean that we have the greatest army in the galaxy. There’s nothing in the Republic to match it.”

 

“What about the Pact of Ashkanar?” One of them asked, and Peter’s smile was feral.

 

“It would be _years_ before it has any true impact — years of raising people and training them. It’s a foolish dream by an idealist boy playing at politics, nothing more.”

 

“But if King Arthur manages to inspire them…”

 

“Do not worry about King Arthur,” advised Peter, with a decisive glance to something behind him. Mordred repositioned himself in order to see whatever the politician had looked to, and it was not a big surprise to see that in the corner of the room a man stood in full mandalorian glory, the metal in his armour shining even underneath the paint. He did not need to see the face to know that it was Raphael who watched over the meeting. “His Royal Majesty will not be inconveniencing us for much longer — and then, the Republic will be overwhelmed, ready to meet any of our demands. Even the Jedi would not dare to act against the Chancellor’s orders, even if they _had_ the manpower for it. The time is ripe, fellows, to bring to reality all that we have dreamed of.”

 

Under Mordred’s watchful gaze, each representative in the room promised their support to the separatist cause. Some did so openly and without reservation, while other promised funds and support but no open declaration of their alliance — or even offered to finance the cause, as long as they were not held to any kind of exclusivity towards the Confederation. These were not politicians holding on to their beliefs but businessmen and women looking for the best deal they could arrange — and caring nothing for the destruction it would sow.

 

He could do nothing but wonder if there was any way for the Republic to survive their onslaught as he walked back into shadows, their pledges echoing in his ears.

 

 

* * *

 

 

Merlin walked inside the small house, unsure of what he felt. Everything in the last twenty-four hours had been chaos — the battle, the fall, the forgiveness. It was not Jedi stoicism that kept him subdued as they went to Essetir, but a complete numbness of feeling, as if after all the emotions that he had gone through he had been completely spent. It might even be a blessing, for it allowed him to reach their small village of Ealdor and to listen to people’s condolences without breaking. It meant nothing to him — he did not know them. For the last ten years, those people had been his mother’s neighbours, her friends. She had cooked for them, helped with their children, for all that they told him she was an active participant of the community that would be sorely missed. Yet, for him, they were nothing but strangers. His mother had had a whole life that he knew nothing about, that he had never taken part in.

 

What made it worse were the elders: people who had known Hunith as a girl, before she was captured, that had rejoiced in her return; people who had known her longer and better than Merlin ever would. It made him feel like he was the dissonant piece, as if he was an interloper in his own mother’s life. Even Will, who once had been his best friend and companion, was now a stranger — a stranger that had had Hunith as a mother while Merlin was left in the austere care of the Jedi.

 

It had been almost a relief to see the coffin lowered into the dirt, to have it done with. People left, assuming he’d want solitude to deal with his pain; that he would not want company in coming inside the home — but, no, this was just Hunith’s house, not Merlin’s mother’s home. Merlin’s mother’s home was on Tatooine, small and bare against the harsh sun and standing proud against storms made of sand. This charming cottage was nothing like the home they had once shared, it held no memories and no emotions for him to touch. It felt unnatural and void of soul with everything in it’s right place, no signs of her having struggled against her captors — and why should she? Will had said they had come to them as if they were Jedi, and she would have trusted them implicitly.

 

Slowly, he stepped over the threshold and walked inside the house. The warm yellow lights came on immediately, enveloping him in a soft glow. Looking around, he saw that the living room contained some of the objects he remembered from their Tatooine home along with others that must have been Hunith’s during her childhood. The centrepiece of the room was a huge hologram of Merlin receiving the medal for winning the Boonta Race. It felt like a lifetime ago, almost unreal. Had he ever been so small? He looked like a drowned rat, save that it was sand and dirt that covered him instead of water. There wasn’t that much of a difference between the roughspun clothing he had been wearing in the image and the Jedi robes; even the grayish tones were not unlike what some of them wore.

 

His reverie was broken by the sound of Arthur’s snort behind him. Merlin turned around to see the king observing the same hologram that he was, and there was a fond smile in his face.

 

“I had forgotten you used to have hair,” he said, “And I’m not talking of that silly braid.”

 

Merlin grinned, running his hand through the short tresses and holding the offending part.

 

“Do not mock me for it — it is a symbol and an honour, and…” Under Arthur’s amused gaze he could no longer pretend to be formal. “It looks stupid and I can’t wait to have it off,” he agreed.

 

Arthur laughed at it, coming closer to the hologram.

 

“She was very proud of you,” he said, his voice softer, and Merlin swallowed dry.

 

“Not sure she would be now,” the padawan replied, and Arthur said nothing. They had all said too much on the subject, and anything else would be a repetition, making those words meaningless.

 

For an eternal moment, they just stood there, side by side, looking at the past when things had been so much simpler, in so many ways. The days of their childhood, the certainties that had been questioned since. Back then, Merlin’s greatest dream was to become a Jedi so he could come back and save all the slaves. Now, he knew that the Jedi could not — would not — do nothing of the type. They may condemn the slavers, but they would not confront them, not while the senate profited from their connections to the Hutts. Arthur had believed — well, Merlin was not sure _what_ he had believed. Maybe that Uther was infallible, and the looming war proved otherwise. They had both believed in the Republic as if it was some sort of salvation, and now sometimes it felt as if there was little worth saving in it.

 

“You sound like a separatist,” the king answered, and just then Merlin noticed had had spoken out loud.

 

The padawan shook his head.

 

“I wouldn’t. I mean — I can _understand_ some of the reasons they left, but I would never. My loyalty and my honour are attached to the Republic; and — I’m not such a weakling as to abandon what I can help fixing.”

 

Arthur smiled, nodding alongside him.

 

“Just so. And you were always good at fixing things.”

 

“Maybe. But some things cannot be fixed.”

 

The softness in Arthur’s eyes was almost unbearable, and Merlin flinched at it. The warmth of his hand as it enveloped his shoulder was enough to scorch. There was little that could be said, it would all be empty words, repetitions, formula and not real feeling. Merlin knew all the words, all the wishes, all the protocols. They could not, however, close the hole that his mother had left in his life. For all that he hadn’t seen her in a decade, knowing she was there, feeling her existence in the Force, that had made him feel safe; sure that there was someone, somewhere, that would take him even if it all failed, even if they rejected him again and sent him away.

 

Not even to Mordred he could speak of his constant fear of failing the Order; of losing his place. Arthur might understand, having lost his planet once, but Merlin could not see Uther as a parent that would inspire the same sort of feeling as Hunith had. Still, it was all the parenting the king had ever known, all the safety and protection and warmth and suddenly Merlin felt very sad for all the younglings that never had the chance of being loved as he was. Still, one way or another, it was clear that Uther and Arthur loved each other deeply, that they were ready to do anything to make sure the other was safe. _This_ was the reason why he had been put in this mission to start with; to make sure that Uther never had to suffer the loss of his child. It was not the type of pain Merlin would ever expect to know — to understand — but in experiencing the loss of a parent, he knew that he would do anything in his power to stop anyone he cared about of going through the same thing.

 

It was as if that touch was enough to fill the gaps that had been left, to give him purpose, to strengthen him from inside. From Arthur’s luminous presence, all shadows disappeared, and there was nothing left but purpose.

 

He would not let himself fail again.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 


	11. Chapter 11

 

It was harder to trace his steps back to the outside of the complex than Mordred had expected, but eventually he managed to walk out unseen. The light was dying on the planet outside. Looking around, he considered the merits of climbing up and observing the dimensions of the industrial complex, but night was approaching fast and it made him give it up. Come morning it would be a better moment to explore the size of their operation. What was urgent now was to let the Council know what he had found out — it was far, far worse than what the Senate had been expecting, and Peter had been right: the Republic had no way of resisting it, not unless they approved the creation of a Grand Army and the use of the Kaminoan clones. The very idea made Mordred’s stomach turn. It felt too much like pieces of a puzzle fitting together, and the true issue there was that they did not know whose design it was.

 

 

His I4 unit chirped happily at his return, and he couldn’t help but grin before climbing into the cockpit. Settling into his seat, he pulled out the ship’s comlink, switching it on. 

 

“Let’s try and reach them, I4;” he asked, typing the appropriate codes.

 

No signal! // Transmitter is off! //

 

 

The Jedi blinked at the message at his screen, but I4 would not be saying so without good reason. Getting back out, he walked around the starfighter, and the reason why they could not get a signal was almost immediately obvious: the system was dangling outside, the wires blacked after some sort of bump.  It looked like as if some of Raphael’s tricks had indeed manage some damage to the ship in spite of the shields.

 

“I see how it is. Do we have any spare parts?”

 

 

Negative! // Spare parts were discarded in the bounty hunter chase. //

 

 

Cursing his own idea, Mordred pushed what was left of the transmitter back into the hole. Rummaging through his kit, he found his personal comlink and a small antenna that could be used to transmit to nearby systems. It would never be enough to secure a transmission to Coruscant, but wired into what was left of the antenna, it might be able to reach Merlin in Camelot, halfway there. His padawan would just have to send the message ahead.

 

His focus narrowed to what he was doing as he tried to combine the two systems into something that would work, and in the midst of the wild winds and the desert fauna, he did not notice the very sentient eyes on him. That he, normally so careful and attuned to the Force could not feel their presence was a mark of just how preoccupied he was with what he had heard. The majority of the economical powers were ready to support Peter’s confederation, and many of them had flat out stated that it did not mean stop working with the Republic. They cared little for the political differences, but for their own profit, and unfortunately there was no way to exclude them from doing so, not without leaving the whole economical system in shambles. Mordred wondered what Chancellor Uther would think of having to accept their double-dealing, and hoped that his friends and advisers would stop him from taking too harsh an action.

 

As the contraption got ready, he connected it, pushing the appropriate codes to try and find Merlin’s transmitter. Mordred almost crossed his fingers, as if the old superstition would help the outcome, but the makeshift transmitter finally beeped, homing in. It seemed to be a bit off — it positioned Merlin in Essetir instead of Camelot, but it was close enough and in such a precarious equipment it’d be foolish to hope for precision. He sent the signal: once, twice, three times and there was no reply. He had wanted to talk personally to his padawan before sending his report to the Council, he was worried about how he was coping with his loss and everything else, but it seemed not to be an option now. He hoped, against all reason, that it didn’t spell trouble.

 

Pushing another row of buttons, he set it to record the message that would be retransmitted straight to Coruscant. It would not be the same thing, but it was all he could do. Turning the recording device around, Mordred rose from his seat, walked around his ship and stood up in front of it.

 

“Hello, Merlin. I seem to have had my long-range transmitter burnt by some missiles, so I need you to forward this message to the Old Folks, please.” He took a deep breath, getting ready to relay what he had learnt since the last time they had talked.

 

“I tried in vain to get to Raphael — the bounty hunter — in Kamino; he was probably more than aware of his precarious position and was running away even as we last talked. I managed to plant a tracking device on his ship, though, and followed him to Geonosis. It seems the droid factories here are working at full speed to deliver the Trade Federation and the Commerce Guilds a new droid army. It is hundreds of times the size of the one used in the Camelot blockade, and from what I’ve heard, they no longer need external input to work. They are setting a deal that will deliver this same army in the hands of the Condeferation of Independent Systems. The bounty hunter seems to have been hired by the separatists to make sure that King Arthur will be out of the way — Viceroy Alined put the king’s death as a condition for him to join the separatists…”

 

From the corner of his eye, he saw a movement, something far different from the wildlife he had seen in the planet. Stopping mid-sentence he turned around, trying to scan the area, but there was nothing around him. Turning back slowly, he continued his report.

 

“The Commerce Guilds and the corporate alliance have pledged their alliance to Count Peter — he’s here, brooking some sort of deal — while the Intergalactic Banking Clan…”

 

The shadow moved again, and this time Mordred’s instinct made him pull his lightsaber, turning it up. The blue light showed for a split of a moment a Geonosian with a trident on his hand, ready to pounce, and Mordred rolled away from the blow, defending himself with his blade. It cut the native’s weapon in half, but the respite was short, for the guard had not come alone. He hadn’t just happened to spot the Jedi and come to stop him divulging his information, this was an apprehension. Half a dozen of Geonosians, all armed, were now encircling him. Standing back up, he got himself in position to defend himself, his back safely turned to the wall.

 

For a moment, none of them moved, all sure that whomever hit the first blow was fated to lose. Then, they all came at him. His let himself go, his hands moving to meet blows before he could see, his body curling and stretching away from electric whips. For a little while, there was even joy in the straightforward activity, so much better than politics or spying, but then it was all over — he had hurt disabled or killed most of them, and better get himself away before more guards came to check on their friends.

 

“I gotta go,” he said, turning towards the camera, as if they wouldn’t have notice it already. “I’ll contact again as soon as…”

 

But Mordred never managed to finish his sentence. All he felt was a sharp bite in his nape,as if from an insect, and it all became black.

 

* * *

 

 

 

It was like looking outside at midday: the brightness of the sunshine casting deep shadows on the ground — except, those were people, and ever more complex than that. Will had not wanted the details, for it did not matter. They hadn’t arrived in time, and it was hard to forgive them for it. For all the tales of heroism and courage, King Arthur hadn’t kept his promise that they’d be safe away from Tattoine. For all the great Jedi stories, it didn’t change that Merlin had abandoned his mother and let her to die in the hands of people who claimed to be his kin.

 

Will was bitter, and he knew it. It was hard not to be bitter when you had lived half a life of slavery and another of servitude. It was difficult to try and _believe_ in the high ideals those two privileged men came to defend when he knew he was just a pawn, not important, a propaganda piece in favour of the House of Pendragon and not a real person. Arthur had never cared for him — or for Hunith, really. He had just plucked them out of Tatooine like flowers because it would be good for their image. Merlin… Will was not even sure that he still _knew_ how to care.

 

Oh, he made all the gestures, alright. The rising sun had seen him kneeling next to the fresh dug grave, in silent prayer for the loss of life. Or, more likely, silent meditation, he had never heard of Jedi praying. How do you plead with higher beings when you’re already considered one?

 

He tried, in vain, to warm his heart to the man that had once been his little brother but the truth was that they had grown so far apart that the bridge could never be gapped. Will had seen it in his eyes, when he had been introduced to his wife and child, how he could make all the gestures but how _far_ such intimate connections were from his reality. Merlin had smiled through his hurt eyes, and charmed the baby with tricks, but there was something impersonal in all that he did. Even the king, pompous as he had always find royalty, seemed more genuine in his dealings with common people.

 

It made some sort of sense — Arthur would aspire to something like that, to a family and children; even if they would always first be heirs. He was known, too, as a romantic and time and again circumstances had made it clear that there would be no political ceremonial marriage for him with a girl from a good family of noble or royal stock. Will might not like the man or what he represented, but he had to admit that he was the sort to aspire a _real_ marriage, if only because that’s what he had been taught to believe his parents had. A romantic royal, Will thought cynically.

 

For a moment, he stopped and analysed the King where he stood in the entrance of the cemetery. Arms folded, his simple red tunic shining against the sun, his eyes never left the Jedi’s immobile form. Will knew that Merlin was supposed to be in some mission guarding Arthur, but presently, their roles had been reversed. There was something incredibly protective in his stance, as if he was ready to dispatch anyone that might come and invade Merlin’s peaceful contemplations.

 

It hit Will then — Arthur might have never particularly cared for him or even for Hunith, but he cared for Merlin, fiercely.

 

No good family girl indeed.

 

The king’s head turned sharply towards Will as he approached, and the farmer raised his hands to show he meant no harm. Recognition was immediate, and there was a minimal change in his posture that, if wasn’t welcoming, wasn’t quite as threatening as before. Not that Will cared, really, he would have done as he thought best regardless of Arthur’s attempts of looking menacing. He was not a man to be bothered by some dark looks. Still, he was not sure how to start as he stopped next to the royal.

 

“He’s been there since dawn,” Arthur offered, eventually. Will nodded — he would not have expected anything different. It was still not enough. “I don’t know that he’ll ever forgive himself for not saving her.”

 

“He shouldn’t,”  the farmer answered, his voice harsh. He knew he was being cruel, but he didn’t care. Life hadn’t been sweet on them, and it seemed that whatever Merlin’s loss and pain, Hunith had paid the ultimate price for his dreams to be fulfilled.

 

Arthur’s eyes on him were judging, but something stopped him from speaking about it. The two of them stayed together in silence for a few more minutes before Merlin rose from the dirt and looked backwards, seeming unsurprised to see them. Still, he took his time to come to them, looking around the place and contemplating something they could not see. He couldn’t, however, avoid their company forever and his steps slowly took him back to their side.

 

“Is this a comission of some sort?” he asked, and Arthur’s eyes softened a bit, as if he wished to offer comfort but knew better than trying. Will, on the other hand, had had enough.

 

“Yes, we all have nothing to do but wait upon you —” there was a genuinely hurt look from his childhood friend that ended up taking the sharpness out of his next words. “I know it is hard, but things have to be solved and it won’t get any easier if we postpone it. Hunith didn’t leave a will, but…”

 

The gesture that followed was completely and tipically that of a Jedi, raising his hand and dismissing it all.

 

“Jedi have no possessions — even if I wanted something. Oh, Will… You know better than me what she would have wanted done, and I… I trust you to honour her memory.”

 

It was not much of a surprise. Of course the high and mighty would have better things to do with their time than going over the possessions of an old woman that they had forgotten all about in the last decade. Hunith deserved better than it, though. He would do what he could, and, at least, she wasn’t around to see this last abandonment from the child she had adored.

 

“I’ll go over the small things,” he agreed, “there are other things, however, like the house…”

 

Merlin gave him a small smile  when thinking about it.

 

“It’s right next to yours, isn’t it?” he asked, though he knew the answer.

 

“I didn’t want her to be completely alone after I married,” Will justified himself, and Merlin nodded.

 

“Yes,” the Jedi assented. “I imagined that much. You were a much better son to her than I was.”

 

He could not argue against it, so he simply shrugged.

 

“Keep it, Will — keep the house as well. You can bring some walls down, add it to your place — you’ll need the extra space for your growing family.”

 

“Growing family?” he asked, but the Jedi just smiled.

 

“Oh, there will be other children, and my mother loved children, didn’t she? She’d be so happy to help you, I think. So — keep the house, keep whatever you wish. It’s your due for all these years… All the years you took care of her for me.”

 

A part of Will was incensed that he’d so easily discard everything of his mother’s, at the same time, he knew that it was a great gift, maybe the only sort of caring and emotional reaction he could still have after being so throughly immersed in the Jedi doctrine. He shook his head, uncomfortable, and shrugged accepting it for what it was — the passing of something that would be a burden to Merlin but a blessing to Will and his family.

 

He was about to give up the whole subject when he heard metallic steps approaching and the three of them turned to see the astromech that the two of them had brought next to George, the protocol droid that Merlin had assembled as a child. Its presence brought a shine of surprise and genuine joy to the Jedi’s eyes, as if he had completely forgotten it’s existence, even though the droid had been almost a friend to the two of them as children.

 

“Master Will —” he started, his metallic voice reverberating for a moment before he, too, was caught off guard by Merlin’s presence. “Is this Master Merlin? Back at last! Good heavens!”

 

Merlin grinned, nodding to the droid.

 

“Good to see you too, George.”

 

“Oh, but now this makes sense, yes, now it does,” the droid continued, as it bowed to the King. “I thought this little one here had something in her circuits, but — no, she’s right — I just never thought to get Jedi messages in Ealdor of all places.”

 

“Jedi messages?” Merlin repeated, his face growing void of emotion once again.

 

“It comes from a certain Master Mordred — does that mean anything to you?”

 

And Will was almost relieved to see Merlin pale at the words.

 

* * *

 

 

Truth was that Gaius was getting old. He could feel in his bones the discomfort caused by the last two days, the frantic sorting through information and the multiple rituals designed and performed to help them find more answers about the future and the past that seemed to have changed before their eyes. The urgent beeping from the holocom was almost a relief; they had been expecting Mordred’s next report and with some luck, in catching the bounty hunter that was both a soldier template and a kingslayer, find something that may finally shed some light into the last events.

 

Master Aglain was the one to click and accept the call this turn, and they were all surprised to see not Mordred, but Merlin staring at them through the video. The padawan seemed worried, even disturbed, but his charge could be seen close by in full armour.

 

“Good evening, Masters;” he greeted politely, though it was day where he was. “I’ve just received a message from Master Mordred to retransmit to you; he seems to have had some issue with his equipment — ”

 

“We’re ready and waiting, patch it through,” interrupted Master Deaton, and the abruptness of the words created a crease in Merlin’s forehead, but he just nodded and started pushing buttons.

 

“Last we heard, he was chasing the Bounty Hunter that eluded him in Kamino,” offered the King, his arms crossed against his chest. “But that was — more than a whole day ago.”

 

“Kamino was already far off, and it’s a terrible region to reach — holonet isn’t steady there. Delays are not so surprising,” answered Master Grettir, and Arthur nodded.

 

After a few seconds there was a click and Mordred’s figure took the place of the previous one, standing in a windswept plain, red rocks behind him. It was not a place Gaius could recognise on sight. There was something in the air that made it look obviously dangerous, which didn’t do much to reassure the old consular.

 

As they heard Mordred’s tale, Gaius started to believe that they were all walking into a trap — a perfectly set trap, one they could not escape even if they wanted to. It was as if the attempt on Arthur’s life had indeed been a catalyst, pushing events forward, forcing different puzzle pieces together. All moves seemed to be neatly interconnected, in a way far too deliberate to be called destiny or the Force. No, there must have been interference, and someone playing them all as smoothly as if they were puppets; Republic and Separatists alike.

 

It was not a comforting thought.

 

He could see in his fellow council members the same sort of dread; allied with the long ignored knowledge that they could not see through the Force as they used to. Everything was nebulous, and there might even be more surprises incoming. Never before had Gaius felt so woefully inadequate to help the government, to keep the Republic safe. He had lost a limb in service, but Mordred’s words pointed to them losing even more.

 

It pointed towards them losing meaning altogether.

 

How could they advise when they did not know better? Had it been nothing but a game of the blind leading the blind? Had it all been a lie, had they been no more than cattle; pawns being played in someone else’s grand scheme? And worse; so much worse, for nothing more could be expected of those who lived their whole lives without immersing themselves in the Force; the Jedi were supposed to be better than that. They were supposed to see further than that. And, in truth, they had not, not for a long time now. There’s none so blind as those who will not see.

 

The surprise should have been enough to make them stop being shocked altogether, and the attack to one of theirs by the locals was not even unexpected — it was clear that there was no space for diplomacy or conversation anymore, that Peter and his cohorts were not willing to follow any other path but that of war — but Mordred was one of their best Guardians, extremely skilled in different sorts of combat, and it should have been easy to him to get rid of them. Only subterfuge could give them the upper hand, and subterfuge it was in the form of a small insect-like droid stinging his neck. The reaction was immediate: the young warrior’s body crumpled in itself and he fell to the floor, unconscious. A few seconds of silence and the image showed some Geonosians approaching, and one of them quickly hit the camera, cutting off the transmission.

 

The image was gone swiftly, leaving the council to stare at Mordred’s padawan, his face a mask of angst, standing as if he was ready to fight the Geonosians himself at that very moment, as if they were not parsecs away. Arthur, too, looked murderous, but there could be no other reaction to hearing his life spoken of as if it were a chip to be bargained with for someone else’s gain.

 

“We need to rescue him!” Merlin announced, as if the Order had ever been in the business of leaving their own behind. Gaius rose his eyebrow to show what he thought of such outburst, and Merlin had the grace of blushing. “Please, Masters…”

 

“Think before you act, padawan;” advised Master Grettir, folding his arms. “Mordred needs help, yes, but what else did we learn?”

 

“Do you see, now, the importance of your mission?” pressured Master Aglain, eyeing the blond man. “The danger that the King is in…”

 

“Is exactly the danger I foresaw myself,” interrupted Arthur, and none of them could gainsay that. “You, Masters, did not want to hear of my suspicions, and they turned out to be correct.”

 

“We’re all flawed,” conceded Master Kilgharrah, folding his long fingers in a peaceful gesture. “May your own mistakes, King Arthur, be those of a man who expects the best out of people you love.”

 

That silenced the young men, although both still looked ready to run right into danger without carefully considering the consequences.

 

“It’s crucial that you stay hidden,” Gaius reinforced, knowing that they’d listen to him. “Arthur’s life must be protected at all costs — this Bounty Hunter will not stop until he’s either dead or has done the job.”

 

“I’m not leaving a friend in need for fear — I’m not afraid to die!”

 

“A generous sentiment, but a foolish one,” dismissed Grettir. “We can deal with the situation, we can handle Peter and Mordred. _You_ need to stay away and safe, or the Republic will be doomed.”

 

“You can not really believe that one man is enough to do that,” derision was clear in Arthur’s tone of voice, and the members of the Council exchanged glances, as if considering what should be said to best solve their impasse. In the end, it had to be him, Gaius, to speak, for no one knew the risks quite so well.

 

“Arthur, it’s more complicated than that. There’s a simple miscalculation in their plans: they think if you die, the Republic will lose heart, that your heartbroken father will be ready to yield his power and that the new government will be cowed into accepting whatever they want — but they don’t know Uther that well. Your mother died of natural causes, and he plunged Camelot into a bitter feud for years just because he believed Nimueh could have done more for her. He had much less power, and much less cause, and thousands suffered for his actions. You’re all that he’s got left of Ygraine — and if you were taken away from him… With the whole of the Republic under his guidance…”

 

There was no need to finish the sentence. They all could see very clearly where that path took.

 

Chaos.

 

* * *

 

 

The sharp edge at Arthur’s features could cut glass as he looked at the place where the Council hologram had been. Merlin did not know what to say, didn’t know how to react. The weight and the responsibility that had been put in his shoulders must be a heavy burden to bear, specially when he had not asked for it. The King was a man of action, sitting still would never have agreed with him. Merlin saw him chew his own tongue once, twice, three times before marching out of his mother’s home. The padawan jumped to his feet, following, and was not surprised to see him enter the ship that had brought them there.

 

It was neither one of Camelot’s official Royal ships nor the old army ship that had carried Merlin away from Tattoine, but a new and unremarkable ship, coming from one of Corellia’s many manufacturers. There was nothing in it to mark it’s allegiance from the outside, and whatever security protocols that had been installed to allow important people to have discreet get aways could not be easily found. Flying it had been a pleasure, a small source of comfort as they made the quick and painful trip to Essetir with Hunith’s body.

 

When Merlin walked in, Arthur was pushing the panel buttons with such violence he was half-afraid he’d break something and leave them stranded in the planet. It was far from the best place to make sure the king was protected. After a few moments he finally saw what the king had been doing as the galaxy map came to life, hovering in the air between them. They could only watch, grimly, as a red line traced the route between Coruscant and Geonosis. It shone as a river of blood between the stars, and the readings showing the distance and time that separated both places just made it all bleaker.

 

“They’ll never get there in time to save him,” announced Arthur, and intimately, Merlin agreed, but there was no point in saying it. “They’d have to cross half the galaxy just to get there — and these readings are considering this ship’s capacities. She’s one of the fastest ships ever produced, and there’s no way the Order has anything to match its speed.”

 

“You’ve heard Mordred’s report,” Merlin answered, grisly. “They have a whole army in the works. The Order can’t simply send someone and hope they get lucky — the Republic must make a show of strength. Or they may try the diplomatic route…”

 

“I’d say the diplomatic solutions are long past,” Arthur replied, pushing some commands. The map moved to show their distance to the planet, almost halfway through the previous route. “Infiltration might be a better idea.”

 

Merlin’s lips were pressed hard against each other. It was too much of a temptation — it was what felt right in his heart, to rush there, to get to Mordred’s side, to save him. He could almost see the relief in his master’s face as they found him, he could taste the victory in his lips… But he could also recall all too well the bitter taste of defeat, the pain of failing, the too fresh wound of loss. He had contradicted his orders just a couple days before, allowed his emotions to rule him, and it had ended in destruction. He’d be a fool to make the same mistake twice in a roll.

 

Automatically, Merlin’s hand moved, stopping Arthur’s where it had started to program the coordinates on their ship. The King looked up at him, the question hovering in his eyes, as if he could not believe what he was seeing. The padawan shook his head minimally, switching the controls off.

 

“We can’t,” he choked, and the thunderous look in Arthur’s eyes were enough to make him cower.

 

“We _must_ ,” countered the man, shaking his head. “We can make it there much faster, and between the two of us…”

 

“We don’t even know if he’s still alive!” Merlin exploded, his emotions flowing out in a rant. “We don’t know how long it’s been since that transmission, and there’s no good way to find him there — and a whole _army_. We _can’t_ simply walk there and hope for the best, hope that we’ll find him, hoping they won’t kill _you_ , hoping — this is far too serious for mere _hope_. Our stupid heroism and the certainty we could make it by ourselves has already led to a death. We shouldn’t cause other deaths — we shouldn’t give them the chance — we _need_ to stay here.”

 

The outburst made the king flinch for a second, before he stood straighter, puffing his shoulders out and looking more regal than ever as he responded.

 

“You are right — our foolishness has had a heavy cost. But this; _this_ , Merlin, is not foolishness. We have learnt from our mistakes — at least, I have. This is not about being a hero; this is about loyalty. Do you know why Mordred is in that situation? Because he was trying to keep me safe. He was serving _me_ , and the service may claim his life. I do not send men into danger and hide. This is not the kind of King — the kind of man — I want to be, the person that I am. If I _were_ that person, they’d never even bother coming for me in the first place. I cannot pretend to be someone else, Merlin. And Mordred deserves better of me — better of us — than for us to think of ourselves before we think of him.”

 

“I’m not thinking of myself, I’m thinking of you,” he protested, but the king shook his head.

 

“No — you’re thinking of the loss and the pain and that if something goes wrong but you were not there, then it would not be your fault. But we both know that is not the truth — he’s your mentor, he’s your friend, he’s been the person you’re the closest to in a decade — would you ever forgive yourself if you let him to his own luck?”

 

Merlin knew very well the answer to that question, and it was not an answer he cared to live through. Still, for all Arthur’s words, of honour and loyalty, it was still attachment that would lead them to Geonosis. And attachment, he had learnt the hard way, was a danger to those who walked the Jedi path.

 

“You know I’d never forgive myself,” he granted the king, looking away. “But you’ve heard the masters — I’m under strict orders to keep you at the safest place possible. I cannot condone…”

 

Arthur gave him a small smile before interrupting.

 

“I’d say the safest place possible for me is by your side.”

 

“… _Hidden_ in _Camelot_ ,” completed Merlin, not letting the flattery getting to him. “They _told_ you to stay hidden.”

 

“Luckily for me — and for Mordred — I’m under no compulsion to obey the Jedi Council,” Arthur answered, and his rebellious expression looked much like his father when he didn’t like something Master Kilgharrah had said. “And what they ordered you to do was to protect me at all costs. Well, if you plan on doing it, you’ll have to follow me to Geonosis because I swear I’m going to go there and get Mordred back.”

 

The stubbornness must be a family trait, one that was represented by the tightening of the jaw and a hard glint in the eyes of all Pendragons. Merlin had seen it many times in Arthur’s father and sister, but in the King it didn’t make him look petty or angry, it made him look honourable and good. He could not, however, let himself be persuaded by it.

 

“Arthur, please, think before you rush into this — think of the Ashkanar pact, think of everything you’ve been trying to accomplish — think, too, of your father and his struggle to keep the Republic together, to keep the common people safe. If we loose you, all of it, all this efforts will have been for nothing. It’ll all be gone. I love Mordred — _love_ is the word, even if Jedi are not supposed to love, he _is_ the closest person to me, and losing him would be like losing a limb — but… is it really worth it? All we could lose?”

 

The king gave Merlin a sad smile and took a step closer to him. Arthur’s warm hand enveloped Merlin’s own, steady and firm, something he could hold on to as he envisioned a life without the man who had turned him from an urchin to a Jedi Knight. Arthur’s eyes were earnest as he stared deep down Merlin’s blue ones.

 

“I know what you’re saying. I heard them. I know you’re scared — and that is ok. You’ve been through a lot recently. But, Merlin, I can’t just turn my back. Mordred pledged himself to my service, I invited him to seat himself by my side. Do you remember what he told me, then?”

 

“The bond we share is more important than the power we yield,” Merlin repeated the words that had been engraved in his heart ever since. Arthur nodded, the small smile never leaving his face.

 

“Just so. I cannot forgo that bond, now, for power. I understand the risks, but, whatever they are, we have to stand for what is right, for the things we believe in. If I betray that — if I betray who I am — all my words are just words. They mean nothing. And that would destroy everything I’ve strived for. I understand why the council is worrying about my father, but if it comes to that, he’ll have to fight his own path to be the leader that all believe him to be. I cannot help _him_ in that — but I can help Mordred, and I can be the man he — and you — believed in. And I swear to you, Merlin, I’m going to rescue him or die trying.”

 

It was hard to breath with the pressure in his throat that kept him from breathing, because although Merlin wanted nothing more than to obey and hope for the best, he knew, in his heart, that he could never do it. That Arthur was right. That he would never simply turn his back and let his master die. If Arthur would claim bonds with Mordred, Merlin could actually _feel_ the other Jedi through theirs, a link that kept the two of them together. For all his fears, there was no way he could come to harm without Merlin knowing, there was no way they couldn’t find him, not when Mordred’s presence shone through the galaxy, their link a compass and his master the absolute north of it. And Arthur, Arthur shone like the rising sun, guiding his steps, the one light he could never fail to see. There was only one thing he could answer to such a declaration.

 

“Then I swear I will protect you or die at your side.”

 

The king’s smile before he switched the ship back on would have made a supernova look pale, and, suddenly, Merlin knew that, whatever the result of their adventure, there was no turning back.

 

* * *

 

 

Aglain knew it was only fair that he was part of the delegation chosen to break the news to Chancellor Uther, but that didn’t mean he needed to be happy about it. The Chancellor’s temper was well known, and it was hard to forget that the men had once blamed all Jedi for his personal troubles. Still, as the most senior ambassador at the Jedi High Council, he was a natural choice for the  committee that had been sent to bring Uther up to speed in their investigations. As Master of the Order, Master Deaton had the nominal leadership over them, but they hoped to count on Master Gaius throughout knowledge of the man’s moods to help them navigate the delicate situation.

 

It was not to be easy — there were enough faults for them to admit, and the situation was grave enough to warrant a formal meeting, to which some other key political figures had been invited. Aglain had known all of them for years: Uther and his Vice-Chair God’wyn; his long time friend senator Aredian; the Corellian Senator, Helen of Mora; the leader of the opposition and senator for Alderaan, Cerdan; along with the main representative for the pacifist party, senator Forridel of Naboo. They all bowed respectfully at their entrance, and the Jedi repeated with a similar gesture of their own. As the door closed and the chancellor gestured them to sit, Aglain felt as if this meeting was a small mirror of the Senate itself, with Uther’s partisans to his left, his adversaries to the right and the Jedi in the middle of it all.

 

He could only hope that their mistakes were not so great at to inspire them to gang against them.

 

“Master Jedi,” started Uther, as gracefully as he could. “You’ve called this meeting forth with utmost urgency and given us the understanding that some grave discoveries were made in your investigation on the attempt against King Arthur’s life —”

 

“— A waste of public resources, if you ask me,” muttered Forridel under her breath, and the chancellor shot her a dark look before he continued.

 

“So here we are, gathered, ready to listen to your report and act upon it. Is it really so grave?”

 

Uther’s eyes went straight to Gaius, as they usually did when he needed confirmation. The consular’s face was grave, his distinctive eyebrows high on his forehead.

 

“And worse — you’ll see. We have brought to your appreciation two recordings sent by the Jedi Knight on the case,” the old man took the holodisk from his pocket and held it where they could see it. “May I?”

 

“Of course,” the chancellor replied, smoothly, gesturing towards the device on his desk to reproduce such things.

 

As the first hologram was replayed, Aglain took the time to watch for the politicians reactions instead of the words from the young Jedi under the storm. Both Uther and Aredian had deep creases in their foreheads, as if they could not wrap their heads around the information that someone had ordered an army for the Republic. Cerdan seemed appealed, but his college’s face was that of complete outrage: she seemed to consider the existence of those clones akin to High Treason — and it might as well be. Still, it was a crime that would have to go without punishment, for there was preciously little to be done against a woman that had been dead for almost a decade. God’wyn’s lekkus were moving constantly, the signs of anxiety, and it was not surprising for the twi’lek was not the bellicose type, the very reason why Uther had chosen him as Vice-chair: to balance him out. Only Helen of Mora seemed to listen to it all without being affected, but she had been an old hand at political intrigue when most of them were only young men.

 

“So you sent this boy to find a bounty hunter — and he found a whole army,” the corellian senator smiled at them, almost feral. “How convenient. One ordered by one of your own…?”

 

“Master Meer-Dieth was a seer in the Order,” agreed Master Deaton. “She seems to have been the one to reach the Kaminoans, but we had no knowledge of it.”

 

“She must answer for this — this — abuse of power!” complained Forridel, and Aglain frowned. He could never understand how someone who was so deeply compassionate could also be so harsh in their judgements.

 

“Alas, she can’t;” he told them, smoothly. “Soon after these events, she was taken ill and died.”

 

“A timely death, no doubt;” Helen grinned once again, as if willing them to find it as amusing as she did, but none of them accompanied her.

 

“What else do we know of this army? Could it be useful? Is it really as formidable as Master Mordred seems to think?” Uther’s voice was all practicality, but Cerdan raised his hand, interrupting it.

 

“You cannot be thinking of using — the Senate is still debating whether such an army would be acceptable.”

 

The chancellor looked at the senator as if he were a particularly slow child, sighing.

 

“We may use them — or we may not — it depends on what the majority will decide. But how could they make an _informed_ decision if they don’t have all the data? And even if we decide against an army; it _was_ co missioned in the Republic’s name and we’ll have to find a way to dispose of it.”

 

“Dispose?” Naboo’s representative repeated, horrified. “These are _people_!”

 

“These are programmed soldiers, and if we decide not to use them, then they’ll present a risk to our peaceful ways — but I do not mean murder, Forridel, I am not such a monster. I merely meant the dismantling of it until we could insert them into society, if it’s even possible.”

 

“We could just… Undo the business, couldn’t we?” asked Cerdan, and Helen snorted.

 

“That would only mean someone _else_ might buy it — no, that would be even riskier. We do not want the Separatists to get any ideas —”

 

“There’s more,” interrupted Master Deaton, his face grave. “We had more news from Mordred after this. It seems our friends in the Confederation of Independent Systems have already procured their own army.”

 

“How?” Forridel’s voice trembled with passion, and the Corellian senator clicked her tongue, as if their innocence made her despair.

 

“Money, I’m guessing, and influence — Count Peter lacks neither, or the charm to convince others to give him even more of both. I am _not_ surprised that they have some sort soldiers…”

 

“We’ll show you Mordred’s following message, but, in the mean time: Master Kilgharrah himself is on his way to Kamino to gather more information on this clone army. Regardless of what the Senate choses to do, he will be able to give us a much fuller picture of the situation.”

 

Without waiting for any answer to his words, Master Deaton pushed the button that started Mordred’s last message, from the red plains of Geonosis. Outrage and anger were slowly replaced in the audience’s face by concern. Even the Chancellor and Senator Aredian, who were experienced warriors, paled as they listened to Mordred’s description of the upcoming enemy. Forridel’s hand moved to grip Cerdan’s arm, God’wyn’s face was touched by sweat and Helen’s lips were so pushed against each other so tightly that they completely disappeared.

 

As least, he could be sure they understood the gravity of the situation.

 

“ _It seems the droid factories here are working at full speed to deliver the Trade Federation and the Commerce Guilds a new droid army —_ ”

 

“He must’ve gotten it wrong,” Cerdan interrupted, gravely. “If the Trade Federation built an army, it’d be in complete rebellion of the treaty that was signed ten years ago —”

 

_“It is hundreds of times the size of the one used in the Camelot blockade, and from what I’ve heard, they no longer need external input to work…”_

 

“It seems, senator, that this is yet another case of Might trumping right,” replied Helen.

 

“The Geonosian Foundries are part of the Techno Union association, maybe we should get their representatives and ask them some very pointed questions,” considered Aredian, but the chancellor just shook his head.

 

“It’s too late for that,” his head gestured towards Mordred’s hologram, as it explained the terms for these same powers to join the Separatist state. “They’re preparing for war — and we have preciously little to answer them with.”

 

The chancellor’s grip on his desk was tight enough that his knuckles had grown white; and even Forridel seemed to soften as she registered that this was a man who had just heard that his child’s life was to be a bargaining chip in the hands of people who wished nothing but to undo all that he had done.

 

“Yes,” Master Deaton agreed, folding his hands. “We need to stop the production before they’re done, or the Republic will be doomed.”

 

“That’s it,” Aredian stood up, nervous energy swirling around him. “The time for niceties — debates, arguments — is over. We need an army, and we _have_ one at our disposal. We _must_ use it.”

 

“Oh, it’s not that simple,” Helen answered, tilting her head. “The debate is not over, and, even if we all agreed to it, the Senate would never be able to approve the use of that army before the separatist attack.”

 

She looked away from the two camelotians and at her politician friends. The two of them exchanged a glance, as if they were divided between their hatred of violence and the knowledge that an ready army might be the only way of keeping the Republic safe. For a moment, it seemed like they were about to argue, but for the first time, Uther’s Vice-Chair’s voice was heard, trembling with panic.

 

“This is a crisis without precedent!” The twi’lek announced, his lekkus trembling. “The Senate must see it — and there’s a way — if they give the Chancellor emergency powers, he could…”

 

Uther rose his hand, as if he couldn’t bear to even hear it.

 

“No — I don’t want it. There are already those who call me a tyrant, and those,” his eyes flickered towards the opposition leaders, “who think I’m far too indulgent with my family and that would accuse me of using this power in their favour alone. No. Our peace is guarded by the Jedi. Tell me, Master Deaton, how many could you send to Geonosis right now to stop this threat?”

 

It seemed to Aglain that in the minutes since they had arrived, Uther had put on years on his face. As the three Jedi looked at each other, the ambassador feared their answer would only add to his burden.

 

“I’d say — counting older padawans — around two hundred.”

 

It was Cerdan’s turn to pale, and, not for the first time, Aglain wondered if they had erred in not making it clear just how few they were for the immensity of the task that was guarding the Republic.

 

“Not nearly enough — your son was right, Uther, they cannot match the power of the Separatists.”

 

Master Gaius merely raised an eyebrow at the senator, before continuing.

 

“We could be able to extract Mordred, and even slow down the process, but, no, we could not face their army in battle alone. However, there are more possibilities than open warfare —”

 

“You know better than to believe _that_ , Gaius!” interrupted Aredian, taking one step ahead. “If it’s war they want, we should be ready for the worst. We have no time to lose.” He turned to look at the chancellor, his face flushed with emotion. ““Sire — there’s no man I’d rather follow, and no other man I can see leading us out of this crisis. There are no men of your calibre in the Senate, indeed, there are few in the galaxy that are your match. You may not be perfect, sire, and even if it’s not in your nature to reach for compromise, you’ve worked admirably to try and avoid needless bloodshed. Still, our enemies are not interested in peace; and I can not imagine who else could command us through such a war — the likes of which haven’t been seen in centuries. You’re the leader we need, and you need the power to _be_ the leader you have to be in this trying times At the next session I’ll propose a motion to grant Uther emergency powers.”

 

“No!” Uther’s voice was as thick as his friend’s. “I don’t _want_ these powers, but I can be persuaded to take them if the Senate wills it. But you, my friend, know you cannot be the one proposing it, or it’ll never be legitimate.”

 

“Why not?” questioned Forridel, and it surprised Aglain that she had nothing against the idea, although there was nothing surprising in the fact that Aredian still looked at Uther as his King, even if he hadn’t worn the crown in over a decade. “Aredian knows you better and longer than anyone else, who better to attest you’ll do the right thing?”

 

“Almost anyone,” answered Helen, licking her lips. “There have long been those who accuse Aredian of supporting Uther’s chancellorship only to maintain himself as Camelot’s representative; and you _must_ have heard suggestions that he was frustrating any sort of courtship of King Arthur to make sure there was no heir that could threaten his position…”

 

“Vile lies,” Uther said, his face red with consternation. “Aredian would never…”

 

“A lie repeated a thousand times becomes more important than the truth it hides,” reminded the corellian.

 

“I don’t care!” Camelot’s senator’s voice was trembling with passion. “You’re my kin — you’re my _king_. I would follow you to the world’s end and count myself lucky for it. The proposition _must_ be made, and if no one else is brave enough to make it, I will! I couldn’t care less for the stain in my reputation — I took a vow to serve and protect the Republic, to serve and protect _you_. I will not fail it!”

 

“You took a vow,” the chancellor agreed, standing up and facing his friend. “And by the power of that vow, I _forbid_ you of doing anything of the kind!”

 

“Sire…” Aredian started, but Uther just shook his head.

 

“No — as you said, you swore. Your honour’s bound to it. You say I’m still your king — so listen to my command. The political turmoil would force you out of your seat, and the Senate _needs_ you, the Republic _needs_ you, and I am certainly not ready to let you go simply because you’re stubborn — no. Camelot has no one else to serve at the Senate but you or Aggravaine; you know as well as I that there’s little hope of Arthur ever settling down to a nice girl and giving me grandchildren. Damn, I’d settle for tumbling a serving girl and making the child his heir, but I’m not so blind as to see that it’ll never happen. I might have to accept heirs with questionable legitimacy, but I won’t have a bastard in your place because you can’t bring yourself to see the dangers of gossip. My slimy brother in law should never be allowed real power over Camelot and you know it. I _forbid_ you to propose such a thing!”

 

For a moment, neither men spoke, eyes locked in a battle of wills, both tied in a web of honour and loyalty that made them try and keep each other safe in spite of the cost. It was remarkable, and, at the same time, the exactly sort of bond the Jedi feared to make.

 

“Very touching,” said Helen, breaking the spell that held them, but even the mockery in her tone sounded fake. “However, it’s also a pointless debate. The only way such a motion would pass was if everyone,” she looked at her fellow politicians, the ones that were known to stand against Uther, and the two of them nodded. “ _Everyone_ could be convinced that this was the best — the only — solution. And the only way to make sure of it, is to have it come from your greatest political enemy. No one else could make the senate agree to it.”

 

Her words hovered in the air for a moment, while all of them tried to digest it. What Helen suggested would, of course, work; but the hard part would be to ever convince Queen Annis to speak in Uther’s favour. She might have absolved Arthur of blame, but she had always been fierce in her despise of Uther and all he did, she had never forgiven the chancellor for pushing her out of power or for the blackening of her name that his campaign had caused.

 

“She’ll never agree to it,” Uther sighed, shaking his head.

 

“I wouldn’t be so sure,” offered Cerdan, surprising them all. “Leave Annis to me, chancellor. Just make sure you can save us all.”

 


	12. Chapter 12

 

Although Mordred had been trained to endure all sorts of physical discomfort, it still didn’t make it easy for him to be held in the stasis field, dangling as if he were some sort of bizarre art piece. The waves entrapping him were almost translucent, but that did little to hide that he was being kept in some sort of dungeon. The typical red rocks of Geonosis formed a cave around him, and, save for the panels that kept him locked up, there was nothing else in the room.

 

Since waking up, Mordred had been observing the area, fighting against the growing nausea as the display kept on turning him slowly, showing him all sides of the cell. Not one side was the same as any of the others, since this seemed to be a natural space; and there had been preciously little interference from civilisation to tame it. It made the entrance all the more jarring, a slab of metal that contrasted severely with the natural stone around it.

 

The doors moved, rushing to the sides towards the cave walls, and Mordred’s first visitor came inside.

 

He had not seen Count Peter this close for many years, but in many ways, the man was unchanged. There was more silver than  black in his hair now, but he still stood with the undeniable posture of a fencing champion. He could see his adam’s apple move as he swallowed, seeming shocked with what he was seeing and from the more intimate vantage point, Mordred could see that the first signs of overgrown beard were showing, as if he had been rushed away from his morning routine. From what he could remember, Master Peter had always been meticulous about his looks, and even more so after leaving the Jedi Order for politics. However, at this visit, his dark vest seemed a bit rumpled, and the whole look smelled of rushing. The man shook his head, walking around alongside with Mordred’s floating body, too stunned for words.

 

Mordred didn’t believe one single bit of his act.

 

“You can stop pretending,” he warned the former Jedi, but the older man just shook his head more firmly.

 

“No — there’s no pretending. This is outrageous — it’s madness. They’ve gone too far.”

 

The jedi could only snort at that.

 

“I thought you were the leader here.”

 

It was the count’s turn to laugh, shaking his head.

 

“Being the leader isn’t the same as being solely responsible for everything — you should know that well enough. I do not preach complete obedience from my allies. I’m not such a tyrant.”

 

Mordred could also hear the things that were left unsaid: that while people had flocked towards Peter, he didn’t need to use threats or harshness to keep them. That he welcomed different opinions and points of view. That he never made things personal. That he was a very different man from Chancellor Uther with his authoritative ways. The count’s willingness to be flexible might be his biggest trump card, and it didn’t need to be stated. Still, it did not move Mordred’s heart.

 

The Jedi moved his arms up, showing the cuffs around his arms that kept him tied as some merchandise in display.

 

“Prove it, then.”

 

The older man took a deep breath, his face a mask of sorrow.

 

“I cannot let you go — I can’t overrule Geonosian law. I will petition, of course, but it is beyond me. What I can do, however…” They had now made a whole turn of the room, and Peter reached for the door, knocking firmly at it. It opened up, letting Mordred see that there were guards outside of his cell. “Let him down. He’s a Jedi Knight, not a piece of meat.”

 

“He’s dangerous,” replied the guard, eyeing Mordred warily, and probably thinking of the gaggle of guards he had disposed of before being caught.

 

“Do you doubt I can handle him?” Peter asked, opening his cape to show a lightsaber attached to his hip and Mordred was reminded of the threats that had been made against Arthur’s life. Escaping was not an option, even if he had been dishonourable enough to try it after being shown courtesy. “Let him down.”

 

Reluctantly, the Geonosian obeyed, pushing some controls that turned off the stasis field around him. Mordred fell to the floor without any grace, rolling awkwardly towards the two of them, and the guard pointed his trident towards him as if fearing an attack. The look in Peter’s face was of clear scorn, but for which of them — or if for both — he could not say. Mordred stood up, beating away the dust from his sand coloured robes, and offered a courteous nod to the two of them.

 

“I’m very grateful.”

 

The only reaction from the Geonosian was to grunt, eyeing the two of them with suspicion, before walking back out and closing the door.  Peter shrugged, as if he couldn’t quite bring himself to apologise in the guard’s name, but Mordred cared little for fake words.

 

“As I said,” the count continued, as if they had never been interrupted. “I will petition for your freedom to the Geonosian court.”

 

“I hope it doesn’t take too long,” the Jedi replied, with a mocking grin. “I have much work to do.”

 

“I can well imagine” said Peter “With all that turmoil, the Republic cannot simply forego one of their most experienced guardians. Which does beg the question: what were you doing all the way here on Geonosis? It might be easier to secure your freedom if they don’t suspect you of foul play.”

 

The irony was certainly not lost on Mordred, but he just shook his head. There was no good reason to lie, even if he didn’t believe in Peter’s protestations of innocence.

 

“I’ve been tracking a bounty hunter since Coruscant, and his trail led me here — Raphael is his name. You might be familiar with him.”

 

Peter snorted, shaking his head, as if the mere suggestion was absurd.

 

“I don’t consort with Bounty Hunters, so I couldn’t help. Though I will say, I am not aware of _any_ such person coming here. The Geonosians, as you can see for yourself, are nervous and not given to trust others — and in the case of mercenaries, well, who can blame them? There’s preciously little honour in dealings with them.”

 

“My thoughts exactly,” Mordred answered, tilting his head. “But he _is_ here, I assure you, and I’m positive that he came all the way here to meet his contractor; it might be that he’s asking for a raise since his victim is clearly more protected than what was expected. It’s a tougher job than he thought so at first, and that _does_ raise the prices.”

 

That analysis made Peter smile, as if he was amused by the cleverness it showed.

 

“I’m right to assume that you also know who his intended victim is?” asked Peter.

 

“King Arthur of Camelot,” Mordred replied  at once, scanning the other man’s face for any trace of guilt. There was no reaction, however, apart from the raising of his left eyebrow, inquiringly.

 

“A good man — much better man than his father — one whose career I’ve watched with great interest. It’d be a terrible loss if that bounty hunter were to succeed.”

 

“Fear not,” he stepped closer to the older man, eyes challenging. “He won’t. Arthur’s being kept safe.”

 

Peter leaned his head sideways, gazing deeply at Mordred’s face, examining for every single part of his soul. He didn’t say anything right away, not until he had fully scanned the young man.

 

“I’ve always found it a pity that our paths didn’t cross before,” he answered, finally. “I can see why Nimueh was so taken with you. She would have been _so_ proud of you now.”

 

The sudden sentimentality caught Mordred off-balance. It was far from what he would have expected from the politician — but maybe Peter thought that his feelings would endear him and put the Jedi off-guard.

 

“If that is true,” Mordred started, not willing to show how much he missed his former master, “she wouldn’t be able to say the same of _you_.”

 

“Don’t be so sure,” Peter gave him a smile with the full force of his magnetism, something Mordred hadn’t experienced for years. “She was once my apprentice — and more than that. I wish she was still alive, for I could use her help right now; her talent… Would make it all much simpler.”

 

“Don’t you dare blacken her name,” the Jedi needed to fight to control his temper in the face of Peter’s revisionism. “She wouldn’t betray the Republic like this.”

 

“The betrayal is not _mine_ ,” the former master answered, incensed. “Oh, she knew — we all did — about the corruption in the Senate. We were not so naive as to believe it didn’t happen — but if she _had_ learnt the truth as I have — she’d never — never — have stayed! The truth… It’s a terrible thing.”

 

“The truth?” Mordred asked, almost mocking, because it sounded like the words of a man desperate to justify his own actions at any cost, a man that needed admiration and adulation so much that he was capable of twisting reality to serve his own purposes.

 

“What would you do, Mordred, if I told you the Republic was now under the control of the Dark Lord of the Sith?”

 

That made Mordred snort. Such dramatics were more like the man he had come to know as Count Peter, though it didn’t sound much like Nimueh’s former master.

 

“That’s not possible,” he dismissed the words, easily. “The Jedi would be aware of it, and we would have stopped it.”

 

“The dark side is more powerful than you give it credit for, Mordred. It can cloud their vision — and a Lord of Sith is a master or shadows, who can easily hide in plain sight and conquer the hearts of many while pretending to be something he’s not. The Sith now have hundreds of senators under their influence, with the Jedi Council none the wiser. You can recall how they refused to believe that the Sith were a real threat ten years ago, how they insisted that Nimueh’s assassin was just some dark Force user, but no true Sith — but you know the truth, don’t you?”

 

The two men stared at each other for a long silent moment. The Council’s refusal to believe Nimueh’s first description of it being a Sith, and their reluctance in recognising that the man he had defeated was not the end of it were sore points for him. Then again, Peter had been in the Council, then, and he would have known it. It was hard to say if the Jedi turned politician was being earnest or if he was just playing with Mordred’s weaknesses.

 

“You _felt_ it,” Peter’s voice was silky, almost reverent. “The true measure of a Sith — more than giving in to emotions, but passion turned to focus, to power. You know what is a _true_ Sith, that what you saw was nothing more than an apprentice, still raw. You _know_ that the Jedi are not ready to face them in full power. And the Republic isn’t under the influence of an apprentice, but of the master. Darth Sidious…”

 

The name rang all sorts of bells inside Mordred’s head, even if he didn’t think he had heard it before. It was as if the Force itself recognised the danger in it.

 

“I know you don’t have good reasons to trust Alined,” he started, his voice lowered. “I, myself, don’t particularly like him. But he did — he _did_ — beg me for help. Ten years ago, he was in league with Darth Sideous — and was betrayed by him. _That_ was what was really behind the whole Camelot blockade, not some unexplainable hunger for profit, but promises of much more power. He has told me everything about how Sideous operates, the way he molds the Senate and the Republic to his dark ends — he _must_ be stopped. You must join me, Mordred, so we can stop him _together_.”

 

It was a seductive view, one aimed at luring a lesser man out of his bonds, but Mordred was no lesser man. So far, he had hidden how much he knew of their true plans, but Peter had finally showed his hand, and it was nothing but lies and delusions of grandeur.

 

“If you _truly_ aimed at nothing but the destruction of the Sith, you’d never accept Alined’s demands of killing King Arthur to join your alliance. No, Peter, I will _never_ betray the Republic.”

 

The man stopped for a second, simply staring at him, as if he had been quite ready for that answer from the beginning. There was a tiny, elegant shrug, and he stepped away.

 

“It may be difficult to secure your release, Mordred. Difficult indeed.”

 

The Jedi didn’t even try to move as he stepped backwards, the doors opening to let him leave, and locking Mordred inside once more.

 

* * *

 

 

The senate was in an uproar, but he hadn’t expected anything else. Cerdan had been serving in the chamber for almost fifteen years, and he knew most of his collegues well enough to know that cooperation was a more bitter pill for some of them to swallow than even actual poison. The hologram of Mordred’s information and his capture had stopped a couple of minutes ago, and immediately the whole rotunda had started reverberating with the mumbling of thousands as they tried to figure out what they could get out of the situation, how to further their agendas, how to become bigger in the face of disaster.

 

Sometimes, they made him sick.

 

Still, if there was any system more fair and just than democracy, it was yet to be invented, so he’d fight tooth and nail for it; even if it meant, sometimes, also accepting that it was time to step back. He was well known for being the leader of the pacifist party in the Senate, indeed, Alderaan had long been a proponent of peaceful solutions. Their influence had guaranteed that Uther’s warriors instincts had been curbed in the last year and a half, but now it was time to admit they had failed.

 

There was no shame in admitting that their efforts had been in vain, because the fault laid not in their impulse to negotiate a peaceful solution, to avoid war, but in the betrayal and hatred of their adversaries.

 

(Cerdan would not call them enemies, those harsh terms were for people like Uther and Aredian, people who believed that they could prevail through sheer strength).

 

He rose on his pod, signalling the central podium, and God’wyn acknowledged him with a nod. Taking a deep breath, Cerdan prepared himself for the steps he was about to take, which might change the Republic forever. Nevertheless, he _truly_ believed this to be the best solution for a crisis with no precedent in the last thousand years.

 

“Order!” called the twi’lek, hitting the floor with his scepter, the echo being carried around. “Order!”

 

There was a lessening of the noise as hundreds of beings quieted down and getting ready to listen. Looking around, the senator could see both the despair in the faces of those who were horrified by the idea of war, as well as the hope that shone in the eyes of the ones that had long believed that Uther could solve anything that was thrown in his way. The man was, indeed, resilient; but _this_ was not something he could solve alone.

 

“The chair recognises the presence of Senator Cerdan of Alderaan, leader of the opposition.”

 

As his repulsorpod moved ahead, he ignored both the cheers and boos from his allies and rivals, focusing only on the task ahead. Glancing towards the Albion section, he caught Aredian’s and Annis’ eyes, and both of them nodded, gesturing him forward. With one last gulp, as if trying to ingest the stinging reality that had led them to this point, he started speaking.

 

“Fellow Senators, I fear the worst case scenario has come. We have long been trying to deal with the separatists in polite, conciliatory fashion, but they’ve turned deaf ears to our attempts. We tried, so far, to treat them fairly, to hear their issues and demands, to give them the courtesy of diplomacy, and they’ve now thrown each and every attempt in our faces. It is clear that negotiations have failed — not because we have failed in them, but because they are not willing to listen. They’ve turned to intimidation and force, and would make us bow to them when we’ve offered a friendly hand and equality. It has come to a point that even a man who loves peace more than his own life must admit that peace is no longer an option. They do not want peace, they do not want friendship. They want war, and, whatever we may have hoped, there’s no way for us to escape it. The question we have to ask now is _how_ can we _endure_ through it.”

 

He took a step back, in a clear sign that he was done, and that was all the audience needed to start speaking again, all at once, passionate declarations and fierce discussions swirling all around them, though in the cacophony, no one could truly listen to their peers. His pod moved back to where it belonged, and he could do nothing but wait, so wait he did, ignoring the first few speakers and their empty repetitions of love for the Republic and their affirmations that they were in no real danger.

 

Their foolishness made Annis’ part easier to play.

 

She stood tall in the middle of her pod, and even though now, as a ruling queen, she no longer had a seat in the senate, no one questioned her right to be there. Her gown of dark blue lent her stature, and reminded them of her mourning. Her fair hair fell down the sides of her face like honey, adorned only by a simple circlet to make sure they would remember that she was, first and foremost, a royal. There was no denying, however, that she was past her youth: the lines in her face were deep, the skin was not as smooth as when she had been chancellor, and underneath her piercing eyes there were bags that spoke of long sleepless nights. All of it just added to her dignity, which made her opening words even more poignant.

 

“Only a fool would believe that this is no real danger — the danger is very real, I assure you. We have an enemy being equipped with the most modern army that money can buy, and virtually no defences. The threat is looming above our heads, and you’ve been wasting time in empty speeches that solve nothing. Here is the reality; they have thousands of droids in all shapes and sizes, and they’re about to unleash them on us. _We,_ on the other hand, have less than three hundred Jedi and local armies that cannot simply be summoned without internal agreements. For _months_ you have discussed the creation of a unified army with no avail — so long, indeed, that King Arthur came to us, his fellow sovereigns of Albion, and proposed us to introduce your people to our ancient privileges. We had hoped, then, that we’d have longer to help create a second line of defence for the Republic, but events are moving faster than expected. In times of peril such as this, extreme measures must be taken. And such measures require a strong hand. Let it be recorded that I, Queen Annis of Carleon, your former Chancellor, propose the following: that the Senate grants immediate emergency powers to Supreme Chancellor Uther.”

 

Cerdan had expected turmoil and mayhem — or at least intense noise — to follow such a statement, but in reality, it was met with stunned silence: such intense silence that it was as if the whole of the senate had been robbed of their voices. There was little that would be _less_ expected than Annis saying a single word in Uther’s favour, but she raised her chin and continued.

 

“Exceptional times demand exceptional measures and people who are, themselves, exceptional enough to take them. And, whatever his many failings, Uther has never lacked courage to do what was necessary.”

 

“This sounds like dictatorship — we won’t stand for it!” yelled one of the senators, being promptly followed by like-minded representatives. Annis’s sneer was almost an art form.

 

“If you think _I_ , of all people, would support Uther’s right to rule while believing he’d keep it past the time of crisis, Senator Tanen, you’re even more foolish than your reputation suggests.”

 

“You’re monarchists,” Tanen shouted back, incensed. “Overlords are natural to you, but the Republic cannot be thus diminished!”

 

“Overlords, Tanen?” The former queen scoffed at the idea. “Like the corporations that are the true rulers of your planet? Those whose monetary empires grant them the right to buy whatever concession they need from your government? Like the companies that have, so selflessly, made sure that you’d win the election and represent their interests in the Senate? No, you mistake us. Albion may be made of monarchies, but we live democratically, ruled jointly by crowns and chambers, working together, for the good of the people. So, too, must the Republic do at these dark times — a body may have more than one head, but an army cannot answer to thousands at once. You’ve elected Uther, twice, to represent this house; and not once in all these years has he been accused of acting against the wishes of the majority, whatever his personal preferences. I may not _like_ the man, but I _believe_ he will return the power granted to him as swiftly as possible. You mistake the nature of the People of Albion, Tanen, when you judge them by your dubious standards. If it were supreme power Uther wanted, he could have just stayed home, allowed Aredian to serve by himself and ruled Camelot as he saw fit. Instead, he gave it up to his still untried son so he could _do his duty_ and _serve_. That is what I propose: that we let him _serve_ to the fullest of his ability. This is _war_ and we need a Supreme Chancellor who will also be our Supreme General, and generals do not have the luxury of waiting for debates before making decisions, not if they mean to win — and I don’t know about you, gentlemen, but I intend the Republic to win.”

 

 

This declaration was, naturally, met with a rolling wave of applause. Cerdan could only observe as his colleagues rose, clapping their hands, chanting Annis and Uther’s name. The two rivals exchanged a look that was far more respectful than he would have expected and Uther bowed to the Queen, whose grim smile was all the answer he could wish for. As he rose, the mass grew more controlled, waiting for his speech.

 

“If you call for my leadership, I cannot, in good conscience, refuse — that would be dereliction of duty. I am not a natural politician, and leading the Republic has been a challenge I’ve only accepted because I could not dismiss your faith in me. Many have called me unbending, many have said I’m a tyrant, but I believe I have proved otherwise: I believe I have proved to you all that I’ll follow the desires of the majority, whenever is it possible. After so much time learning how to _listen_ and how to _share_ power, I’d fear to have so much power in my hands, so I can perfectly understand Senator Tanen’s objections. However, it is clear to me that this crisis is without precedent, and that there is no way to achieve victory in this upcoming war without a more centralised rule. I will serve, if you ask me to, until this war is won or my life’s forfeit — whichever comes first. I can only hope that the gods will grant me the opportunity to live out the end of my life in peace once this war is over.”

 

Another thunderous round of applause filled the room, and Cerdan felt his nerves twisting in his belly. Never before had he known Uther to show so much of the fabled Pendragon charm; but now he seemed to shine in their eyes, drinking in the trust of the crowd, revitalised by it. As the Speaker of the Senate called for them to vote on Queen Annis proposition, Cerdan couldn’t help but wonder if they had done the right thing.

 

 

* * *

 

 

Never before had Arthur had reason to test the supposed speed of the ship that had been bought as a get-away vehicle for Camelot’s Royalty; and he was glad that he had never tried. He was not a man that had any false ideas about his skills; and while he was a fair pilot, he did not have the talent needed for this particular task. On the other hand, it was a pleasure to see Merlin’s tense frame ease as he stopped thinking of the disasters he had gone through — and considering the possible calamities to come — and simply focused on flying.

 

It was easy, seeing him in Jedi robes all the time, sparring with him using his lightsaber, to forget that Merlin hadn’t always been a Jedi. Before it all, before they had found him and changed his whole life, he had been a great pilot in his own right. It was clear that, even all this time later, it was still something that brought him peace. Some people believed that meditation was something that was always done without moving, but Arthur knew that some movements, especially those which were repetitive or automatic, could induce a trance-like state. Merlin seemed to be in that sort of state. It was as if, while most of his senses were completely attuned to the task at hand, he was in a spiritual state that was akin to the complete peace of deep meditation.

 

Arthur had no idea where he was getting such fanciful notions. Metaphysics and poetics were not the day to day focus of a knight; but it was better to lose himself in watching Merlin’s moods than to worry about what was to come. He knew there was a lot of stubbornness, as well as some degree of foolishness in rushing to a place where he _knew_ they wanted him dead especially with little foreknowledge of the field, in the hopes of finding and extracting a man from prison. It was more than risky, it was reckless, but he could not, in truth, do anything different. It was the way he had been built: honour demanded that he try and get Mordred to safety because he _knew_ that was what the Jedi would have done had their places been reversed.

 

The incredible speed of the ship, and Merlin’s undeniable skill meant they managed to reach their destination in half the time that would normally be necessary. Most of the trip had been spent in silence, with Merlin too deeply concentrated on getting them there and Arthur considering, from the scarce intel they had, how to actually reach Mordred. Apart from the rumble of the engines, the only sounds they could hear, in the distance, were I2’s beeps and G-O-R-G’s low answers. The droids, it seemed, needed more communication than they did.

 

Only when Geonosis was visible to the naked eye did Merlin speak.

 

“Ah, look — Mordred’s starfighter is a small ship and the sensors wouldn’t have caught it — there’s a radar net around the whole planet. The smallest seismic wave would be enough to set it off. _That_ is how they found his ship.”

 

“Wouldn’t it try and stop him immediately?”

 

“They’re trying to keep track of visitors, not eliminate potential buyers,” the Jedi frowned, hitting a few buttons. “Even if you pass _through_ the nodes, it drenches the ship in some sort of radiation that would work as well as a tracker to anyone knowing what to look for.”

 

“So, how do we get down there without being caught?”

 

Merlin didn’t answer at first, clacking his tongue as his hands flew over the controls, adjusting all sorts of parameters, increasing his range and altering their course slightly.

 

“We don’t,” he answered, finally. “There’s no way we can evade the radiation, but we _can_ mix ourselves in with other guests and _hope_ that we’ll blend in well enough that they won’t notice we shouldn’t be there.”

 

“Guests?” Arthur repeated, and Merlin gestured to the panel on his left, where he could see three different groups of ships, all heading towards the same planet. Most were big freighters, but each group hand a handful of smaller passenger ships, not unlike their own. “It seems to be quite a party.”

 

“Well, the Trade Federation and the rest need to collect their army — and if Mordred was right, they’re having a full on Separatist Council here. It seems that there are between fifty and a hundred freighters, and the rest are people, probably coming to close some deal. That’s good — with so many people around and so much politics to deal with, it’s unlikely they’ll be doing anything about Mordred right away.”

 

Arthur did not agree with Merlin’s point of view, but it was better not to say anything. The arrival of so many dignitaries and a formal council would be the perfect moment to parade Mordred around, to use him as an example, with the presence of something akin to a tribunal ready to condemn him and lay charges of espionage and double-dealing at the Republic’s feet. The Jedi’s presence would be considered not only an invasion, but also a threat, and they’d finally have their justification in attacking. Unwittingly, he had given them all they lacked to start a war outright: a reason.

 

 

Still, the arrival of so many people gave them the best chance of getting planetside undetected. He was about to point out they were coming from the wrong way to be part of their group when the padawan jumped from his seat, pulling the panel open and disconnecting a few cables.

 

“Merlin, have you got any idea how much…”

 

“Shh,” he answered, sitting back down and signalling the second group of ships. “Trust me.”

 

It took one of the ships but a few seconds to reply; the hologram showing a cranky neimodian, who clearly didn’t enjoy his job much.

 

“Yes?” he asked, his slimy face frowning. “Who is this?”

 

There was no image coming from their side, probably exactly what Merlin had wanted, and he turned on the sound system to replay chatter, as if there were many more people around than just the two of them.

 

“Ah, yes, sorry — I’m carrying some representatives from the Galactic Banking Clan — Some asshole sent me the wrong signal and we ended up taking the wrong turn in Mon Gaza and having to cross all the way through the Rishi Maze to get here — awful area, filled with junk, I fear we’ve taken some damage that has burnt out our camera.”

 

“The Rishi Maze’s a kriffing death trap. All right, I’m sending you the correct code so you can join in the group. You’re lucky we ended up stopping in Christophsis for longer than planned so you managed to catch up. They’d never have let you land away from the group — I heard some Jedi scum tried to infiltrate the planet — tough business.”

 

“Oh, I’m not surprised,” the younger man replied easily, punching in the code he had just received. “Those Jedi folks are always putting their nose where they shouldn’t.”

 

“Right you are,” the neimodian pressed his lips against each other. “Never liked or trusted them, ever since that pesky Camelot business. Anyway, he’ll at least give us some entertainment — I hear Geonosian executions are _nasty_.”

 

“It serves him right,” Merlin mumbled, twisting their course so they sat comfortably in the midst of their enemy, accepted as part of their group. “Let’s hope the rest is all that was promised as well.”

 

“Oh, it’ll be,” reassured the other pilot, “I’ve caught some conversation — seems some high ups came before us, and they are looking forward to finishing these negotiations. Anyway, we better hurry up  or we’ll miss the party,” he added, before turning off his video.

 

Arthur, who had been holding his breath, finally let it out. He could see how the information had shaken Merlin, for the padawan was pale, but it was at least clear that, so far, Mordred lived. The king squeezed his shoulder in an attempt of comforting him, before trying to make him feel more at ease.

 

“That was some quick thinking — I’m impressed. I didn’t think you had it in you.”

 

“What? Lying?”

 

“Well — yes. Not something that one naturally thinks when thinking of Jedi.”

 

Merlin snorted at that.

 

“We’ve already established I’m a terrible Jedi. Besides, I had plenty uses for lying — before.”

 

Someone else might have made it sound like something dark and ominous, but Merlin simply grinned wildly, in a way that made him look a bit foolish. Arthur could only shake his head at his friend’s antics, thankful that even in this dark moment, the younger man would let himself loosen up a bit. The king had long ago learnt that unless someone was willing to bend a bit under tension, they’d break completely — and he had no wish to see _that_ again.

 

After they parked in the midst of the other passenger vessels, the padawan jumped up, and rushed out of the pilot’s cabin and speaking loudly.

 

“I2, we need your help —” his voice was suddenly muffled, and Arthur couldn’t figure out what the beeps meant, but clearly Merlin did not need a translator. “No, we _are_ coming down, but you and George are inconspicuous, just two droids, while Arthur — well. He won’t last five seconds out there before someone recognises him.”

 

“Hey!” he protested, although it was true that his face was well known. Merlin stepped out of the room where the droids had been staying, looking at Arthur in the corridor. He raised his eyebrow in a manner that was incredibly reminiscent of Gaius, but the effect made him look cheeky instead of dignified. There was not much he could do but let out a small laugh and shake his head. “Ok, I’ll give you that one — but only because I’m incredibly handsome.”

 

It was meant to be teasing, but there was something incredibly rewarding in seeing Merlin blush and unable to answer.

 

“Data analysis suggests that over 60% of the people in the galaxy would be able to recognise you on sight, Your Majesty;” replied George, his metallic body shining under the lights. “It’d indeed be foolish to try and walk out in the midst of them.”

 

“Well, it’s not as if you’re doing much better,” Arthur’s reply was aimed at the other man. “We’ve just heard someone blaming the Jedi for everything that was ever wrong in the universe and look at you.”

 

“I took off the cape!” Merlin answered, as if that was enough to make him anonymous. Arthur just gave the obi a pointed look, and for a second, he wondered how Merlin could not see how obviously Jedi the clothes were. “They’re black! Have you ever seen a Jedi wearing black?”

 

“They’re dark brown,” corrected the king, and Merlin shrugged. “So unless you’re thinking of stripping to your undergarments…”

 

Merlin’s incredible high cheekbones looked even better when flushed, and it made it very hard to resist coming up with ways to make him blush. The adrenaline of the upcoming adventure was already rising in Arthur’s blood, making him cocky.

 

“Look who’s speaking — you’re in full armour.”

 

“Ah, yes, but I _can_ take the armour off and blend in with my regular clothes. You don’t seem to have anything else to wear.”

 

“I could use _your_ clothes,” he replied, and Arthur cocked his head, analysing Merlin’s frame.

 

“Your legs are longer; your ankles would show — and you’re too thin, Merlin, I’ve told you. You’d look like you were wearing a potato sack with my shirt.”

 

“I’m not too thin — you’re the one needing a diet,” he answered, and Arthur gasped.

 

“Are you saying I’m fat?” the King questioned, incensed. “I’m fighting fit!”

 

“Whatever you say, sire,” the Jedi replied, grinning once again, before turning back to the astromech. “Any luck I2?”

 

“Did you talk my droid into hacking their system?” Arthur demanded to know.

 

“She’s great at it, trust me.”

 

“She?” Arthur asked, but a string of beeps drowned his question.

 

“It seems, masters, that there are some guards coming our way.  It’d be advisable to come up with a plan or hide.”

 

The two men looked at each other, and Merlin clapped his hand over George’s metal shoulder, the other one touching I2-SA’s dome.

 

“I’m counting on you two — make them believe you.”

 

The next thing Arthur knew was that he was being tugged by his chainmail and manhandled into a tiny closet that he hadn’t even known existed. There was barely enough space inside for the two of them, and it wouldn’t take long for the air to feel too hot. The fact that his mind almost immediately began to attempt to memorise the tilt of his companion’s nose, the depth of his parted lips, the smell of his hair  would not help him stay cool and calm. It really would be better to stop the situation altogether before it became physically painful. At least, metal would be enough to hide his shame. Even through the armour, he could feel the weight of the padawan’s body leaning against his and his mind, illogically, decided to remind him vividly of how warm and firm Merlin’s body had felt when they hugged back in Camelot. It seemed like a lifetime ago, now, but it had been just a few days. The padawan’s eyes were not focused on him, but rather on the cracks that let a modicum amount of light into the closet. He seemed to be concentrating on what was happening outside.

 

Probably a smarter idea than pining.

 

Focusing his hearing what was going on outside the closet, he heard two pairs of feet walked in, the sound of their tough exoskeleton clanging against the shiny metal. He did not understand a word of Geonosian, but it seemed no problem to the protocol droid.

 

“Ah — yes. But our guests all disembarked as soon as we landed. You must have missed them in the crowd.”

 

Some more clicking and guttural noises followed that, before the droid spoke again.

 

“Of course. You’re free to search the ship, though there’s no one here but us. I’m sure they’d understand, you’re just doing your job.” Something that was undeniably a question was shot at him, as the two guards walked past their closet,  “No, we suffered some damage on our way here and the astromech’s supposed to fix it. They left me behind because this unit is particularly untrustworthy.” I2’s protest came in a loud beep, and George’s voice seemed further away, ahead of them, almost at the pilot’s cabin. “What? It is _true_ and you know it. Delusions of grandeur…”

 

I2 continued beeping loudly, but if the guards had any comments on the droids’ feud, Arthur could no longer hear it. His eyes moved to Merlin’s face, suddenly remembering that their travel maps had been left open in the piloting panels.

 

“The maps…” he whispered, and Merlin shook his head.

 

“I2 deleted all logs. Now - shush.”

 

It seemed like interminable minutes before they could hear anything again, and it was meaningless to Arthur, as I2 seemed to be speaking alone. Soon afterwards, they could hear the steps of the guards heading back out and the protocol droid’s mindless chatter.

 

“It is a pleasure, naturally, you’re welcome to return at any time…” George was saying, before Merlin murmured in his ear.

 

“On my count, we jump them,” Arthur doubted Merlin could truly see his face, but he could feel the nod as their bodies touched. “One — two — three.”

 

The two men burst out of the closet with a bang, as the padawan used the Force to rip the door off its hinges. Arthur had a moment to picture Leon’s mournful face when he saw the damage done to the ship, and then his instinct kicked in. A trident was being pointed at him, and it was easy to just hold it, stopping the strike midway and pushing it back, so that the butt would hit the bearer square across the chest. The species’ natural armour meant that, in spite of the strength used, it was not enough to cause any real damage, even if it unbalanced the Geonosian, making him let go of the weapon. Arthur could hear the sound of Merlin’s struggle with the other guard, the cramped quarters of the hallway making it impossible for him to use his lightsaber; but there was not enough time to worry about it for his guard was recovering fast and beating his wings, rising above Arthur’s thrust. The king saw that the guard was reaching for something on his belt, and didn’t think twice before swatting the trident, knocking it away. Unfortunately for his opponent, his wings weren’t quite as resistant as his body, and the contact with the handle was enough to rip them, causing him to fall down. Then it was a simple matter of knocking him out.

 

“Took you long enough,” Merlin said, cheekily, and Arthur noticed that his Geonosian was out as well, and immobilised on the ground. He didn’t wait for Arthur’s reply before turning back to the astromech. “Is everything clear outside, I2?”

 

The answering beep was clearly affirmative, and the Jedi turned back to the protocol droid.

 

“Alright — so, George, you stay here with them — don’t worry, they’ll be out for a long while. I2, you come with us.”

 

Together, they pulled the two guards into the same closet that had hidden them, making sure to tie up their arms and feet. They could only hope that the two would not be missed before Arthur and Merlin could find and retrieve Mordred. George seemed incredibly agitated at the prospect of guarding the two Geonosians, but the padawan simply dismissed his nerves, gesturing them all out.

 

The hangar was filled with two dozen passenger ships, but they all seemed empty. A few droids were milling about, mostly astromech and other similar models, working on maintenance. It seemed that all the other guards were reunited in a circle, gossipping about something. Carefully, they made their way to a side-door, and I2 stuck out its connector, twisting the circle in order to access the system. The small panel gave out the readings, showing the way ahead was clear, and the droid opened up the door, letting them in.

 

They found themselves in was a long, narrow corridor: poorly lit, filled with tall jars that were used to store extra fuel for ships. Still, they moved on silently behind I2, towards the only door on the other side. Once again, the droid opened it up with a pop, and with a swish, they were taken to a small, dark red room, where they could see a bigger computer station. The room had several doors, leading to different places, and Arthur had no idea how they’d figure out where they were going.

 

“This is great — I2, try and see if you can pull some sort of map to where Mordred is.”

 

The droid beeped his obedience to the Jedi (clearly it cared more for Merlin than it did for Arthur, the little traitor), moving to connect to the computer. For a moment, it looked as if it would be easy afterall: the screen showed an easy red line connecting them and the prisoner they had come for, in one of the lower levels, but not all that far away. Suddenly I2 was beeping loudly, his little metallic body showered in electricity, and all the doors closed shut. Merlin’s green blade came out of its handle, and Arthur automatically went for the missing sword in his belt. Just one of the doors remained unlocked, and the two men looked at each other, knowing better than to try and use it to escape.

 

It was but a moment before it opened up, letting in the last person Arthur wanted to see.

 

“Ah, King Arthur — how kind of you to join us. I’ve been waiting eagerly for us to meet again.”

 

The smile on Vice-roy Alined’s face was enough to give him the chills.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 


	13. Chapter 13

  

There were many things Count Peter had to get used to since starting to organise the Confederation of Independent Systems, and many duties he did not delight on — talking to prisoners, on the other hand, was not one of the things he resented. There was something unique and fascinating about the chance of observing and analysing individuals when they were in less than ideal circumstances. He was, also, honest enough to admit to himself that he _had_ been curious about King Arthur as well as to Mordred’s padawan. The stories around each were enough to pick his interest, and he fancied himself a collector of interesting friends, and not many would have been more interesting than these two — together or apart.

 

In spite of Alined’s requests, the pair had not been as thoroughly bound as Mordred had been. That they had willingly stepped into a trap had spoken in their favour when Peter argued for an easier treatment. Not to mention that, with all the arrivals, looking good was more important than before. Not many would mind seeing Jedi harshly treated, specially when caught red-handed, but a sovereign was something else. No leader, no matter their inclinations, was ever completely comfortable with seeing another one thoroughly disrespected. Public humiliation and execution was one thing, torture was another.

 

Before stepping in, Count Peter allowed himself a moment to watch the two prisoners unobserved. Arthur was sitting on the floor, his left arm resting on his left knee, the other leg to the side, looking at something that was not there. There was a small bruise in his cheek, a purple that was almost blue under the light, but other than that he seemed unharmed by the latest events. No one had taken away his armour, and the metal rested heavily against the rock floor. Merlin, on the other hand, did not seem ready to just wait around. His steps were light and his face carefully blank, but there was no other name for what he was doing but pacing. Whatever peace he was faking, there was preciously little truth in it.

 

Interesting.

 

Peter stowed the information for future reference, and walked inside. Merlin froze, his huge blue eyes turning into slits and positioning himself in front of Arthur, as if his softly clad body were a more efficient protection than Arthur’s chainmail, had harm been meant to his charge. The King stood up immediately, his posture challenging but not to aggressive as the padawan’s.

 

“Your Majesty,” Peter spoke, bowing to show how little threatened he felt by them. “It’s been far too long.”

 

“Count Peter,” Arthur’s voice was polite, but there was none of the warmth and the charm that made him truly dangerous for Peter’s plans.

 

“I’m delighted to meet you again — I’m sure we have much to discuss…” He allowed his eyes to roam towards the younger man whose hand hovered over the empty space where his lightsaber would normally be. “That is, if you can keep your pet Jedi under control.”

 

“Oh, he’s housebroken,” guaranteed the King, gesturing Merlin to the side. The boy did not seem to like being so easily dismissed, raising his eyebrow in disapproval in a way that made Peter think of Master Gaius. It was impossible no to chuckle at the scene. He did, however, step aside as requested, aligning his position with the other man’s. Arthur crossed his arms, bracing himself. “Say what you have to say.”

 

 

“First of all, your majesty, I’m wondering what brought you here — I was under the impression Camelot had no interest in being friends with the Confederation…?”

 

“I came looking for a friend — Mordred — as I am sure you know. I have no wish to interfere with whatever politics you’re playing here; but I’d very much like to retrieve him.”

 

“Ah… _friend_ ,” Peter answered, smiling at his attempts at diplomacy. “That is a kind term for you to use, sire. Jedi are not in the habit of keeping personal connections with outsiders, unless they are political. So, _friend_ sounds a bit misleading — not your fault, of course. I’m sure young Mordred has been quite pleasant and welcoming to you, but I’d advise against truly believing that _spies_ are _friends_ — mostly, they’re just traitors waiting to happen.”

 

“He’s no traitor — and no spy,” protested Merlin, spitting at Peter’s feet. The count observed the reaction, feeling less and less impressed with his discipline. The boy was too brash. “He’s a loyal officer of the Republic and should be set free.”

 

The naivete in these words made Peter grin. It was just too easy.

 

“But we _don’t_ recognise the Republic here, except an enemy that tries to curb our freedom. There is no reason to let him go — not when he was lawfully tried by a whole body of representatives and found guilty of espionage. In fact, it would be reckless to just set him free when he will run back to the Republic and spread confidential information.”

 

“And what’s to be done with him?” Questioned the King, but it was clear from his expression that he knew the answer.

 

“Execution, I believe, this afternoon. Unless, of course, we received a plea for clemency from a _new_ member of the Alliance…”

 

Arthur closed his eyes, taking a deep breath, as if steadying himself. It was clear that there were intense personal bonds at play, more than the usual duty-mandated rescue, or the connection between master and padawan. Maybe there was something to it when he had called Mordred a friend.

 

“And, I assume, in case I decline, we are to meet the same destiny, yes?”

 

The count rose his shoulders slowly, spreading his hands as if to show them there was nothing he could do — which was, indeed, true. The only possible way out for them was King Arthur abandoning the Republic and pledging himself to their cause. It would be such as strike against the Republic as to make sure they would win. However unlikely it was, it was worth trying; they may achieve the same results far faster than expected.

 

“You make it sound like I’m coercing you into joining — which is not something I wish to do. You are, however, the sovereign of Camelot, bound to no one but yourself, answerable to no one but your gods —”

 

“Ah, that’s where you get it wrong, Count Peter,” the King interrupted him, shaking his head. “I am answerable to my people, to my peers in Albion…”

 

The politician dismissed it all with a wave of his hand.

 

“Yes, you are, but they trust your judgement above all other for a _reason_. The _same_ reason you’re valuable to the alliance. In _you_ we can all see the old ideals, untarnished, and it gives us all hope. Unlike the Senate, unlike the Republic — there’s something genuine about your wish for a more equal society that they have long lost under a list of bureaucrats, hypocrites, corruption — the only equality that the Republic can grant is that which one can pay. Doesn’t it disgust you?” He turned, staring straight at the padawan, now. “Aren’t you fed up with having to play nice while ordinary people suffer in name of some peace that is truly just economical gain?”

 

The two men looked at each other, and Peter could see it all: the way they needed each other support in order to resist, how both had the same questions but were unwilling to voice their opinions, how tightly they held to what they had been taught because the only other option — the truth they saw once they _looked_ — was that there was nothing in the Republic truly worth saving, no reason for their loyalty but duty. If one of them wavered, they’d both crack and break. Alas, they fed each other’s strength — each other’s delusions — in the infinite seconds before they turned their eyes back to Peter.

 

It was just as well.

 

“The ideals are alive, even if the institutions are failing,” Merlin answered, and Peter aimed straight at him.

 

“I know what you’re thinking of — I love the Order, I do. I know how much we — you — strive to make it all true. Still, outside of the world of the Temple, it’s all crumbling. I could see it, and I had to leave the life I loved to try and save civilisation as we hoped for. I did not leave the Order — or the Republic — because I no longer believe in what I was taught: no, I left it _because_ I believe in them above all else and I all I do is to seek a way for those ideals to be prominent once more. _That_ is why I started this alliance. It is not about power, it is not about greed — it is about freedom and justice and equality — everything you should be defending and can’t because of _politics_.”

 

It was easy to see how these words impacted the padawan, who did not reply. The King, however, had one other level of duty to answer to.

 

“If what you say is true, you should be working _with_ my father, helping him make things right.”

 

Peter gave him a sad smile, for there was no pleasure to him in breaking childish notions.

 

“Oh, Arthur, I know he is your father, but surely you’re now enough of a grown man to see…?” He sighed, shaking his head. “You’re no longer the little boy whose ship was stolen, whose dad ran to the rescue in the most dramatic way possible. No. Uther meant well, your majesty, but he’s not fit for chancellorship. In his heart, he’ll always be a king — a sovereign. He can play at politics, but his personal views always end up playing an important part in how voting goes. The democratic process is a sham, a game of chess played on the voters. While he claims not to interfere, his friends are always ready to whisper in the right ears, exchange the appropriate gifts, to make sure that the result that best fits his plans is the one they get. Even the opposition is fooled by his charm — I cannot deny, he _has_ charm, all Pendragons do. I bet you that, as we speak, he’s leading even the pacifists to speak in favour of the Republic’s Grand Army — ah, yes, we know all about this idea. Your father is a good man, a _great_ man, even, but he does _not_ defend the rights of the mass to rule. In time, and in his hands, I fear the Republic will lose even the pretext of democracy and freedom and become his kingdom.”

 

“No,” Arthur protested, but it was clear in his eyes that he feared the same. “I cannot believe that. My father is an honourable man, and he would not throw to the mud his honour, and he would not taint his name. More than anything, he’s a traditionalist, and _that_ means he would never take over the Republic — no, it’d be easier for him to join _you_ than to subvert it. You say you know all about the Grand Army of the Republic — well, I know of your allies, too. For all that you speak against the corruption in the Republic, how do you intend to make it better with the allies you chose? The Trade Federation — commerce guilds — TechnoUnion! We all know that they care nothing for people, only profit: my own people suffered enough for it. You say that results in the Republic are bought, and that in the Alliance it will be different — I believe it will, for there’s nothing left to buy when business is government itself!”

 

Peter blinked at the passionate speech, not because he hadn’t been expecting it; there was no other way for Arthur to react to the accusations against his father. Still, he hadn’t realised how good the boy was. It was going to be a far more pleasurable conflict than he had previously anticipated. He could also not fail to notice how the padawan’s eyes shone towards the King, and while the young men might lie to themselves, the count was old enough to know what it meant.

 

Curious and curiouser.

 

With another smile, Peter bowed.

 

“I will not try and make you forsake your views, your majesty. I have come to offer you what help I could give, as my limited power allowed. I respect your position, but I fear there’s nothing I can do for you or your Jedi friends if that is the case.”

 

Arthur answered that with a sharp nod.

 

“So we must die for our beliefs,” he offered, simply, and there was such an elegance in the statement that all Peter could do was gesture, showing them how empty his hands were. “Fair enough. I am not afraid to die for that which I believe to be right. You can tell them, Count Peter, that King Arthur stands by the Republic.”

 

The King turned his back to the door, and Peter hadn’t felt himself so completely dismissed from someone’s presence in many years. Still, it’d be shameful not to let him have it — Force knew there wouldn’t be many victories in his future. Even Merlin didn’t seem to notice him anymore, turning immediately to the King, as if he were the sun that he couldn’t stop following. Bowing on last time to the thin air, Peter left, leaving them to it.

 

There were less obvious ways of winning, and all he had learnt would be worth much more than a simple discourtesy.

 

 

* * *

 

 

It seemed to Merlin that days had passed, but it was probably not much more than a couple of minutes since Count Peter left that they received new visitors. The guards opened up the door to let in a protocol droid, not unlike George, who bowed properly at them.

 

“Sorry, sire, I’ve been sent for your armour, if I may?”

 

The King just nodded, as if he had been expecting it all along. He stood perfectly still as the droid came closer, spreading his arms and legs as to give it room to work. Under the padawan’s gaze, the robot started the process of unfastening each piece, removing it. The touch was absolutely impersonal, and that did not sit well with Merlin. If this was to be the last time ever that he’d be stripped of his armour, it should be more than some clinical procedure.

 

“You don’t have to remove it,” he interrupted as the robot was about to kneel. Two pair of eyes turned towards him, and he felt the tip of his ears burn even as he spoke. “I’ll take it out and make it ready to be handled. Just give us a few minutes.”

 

“This is highly irregular,” the droid started, but the padawan was not really interested in having an argument. Instead, he rose his hand gesturing to the side, his mind focused heavily on the complex software of the AI. “But, of course, it is only proper that you’d do it. I’ll — ah — return in a few minutes to collect it, then.”

 

Arthur looked at him, his face torn between amusement and confusion as the droid left.

 

“What was that?” he asked, finally, as Merlin walked closer.

 

“Some minor Jedi trick - it influences weak minds. If you know what to push in the program, it works on AI too.”

 

“Handy,” was all the answer he got, and there was nothing to do but nod.

 

“Yes — it has saved our lives a few times. Unfortunately, here…”

 

Merlin let his voice drop, never finishing the sentence. Instead, he focused on the job at hand, kneeling in front of the King and using his long fingers to deftly unfasten one of his greaves. He could feel the king’s eyes on him, but he did not look up, working on freeing flash of metal, trying not to think of how fragile and unprotected Arthur would soon be. All thought fled from his mind, only the reality of leather and iron under his hands, no space for anything but the coldness of armour and the warmth of the flesh underneath as he took the second greave away. Each moment, each movement, was an eternity of its own, each of them a moment of meditation and dedication, a service to the person who had taught him the meaning of serving. Emotions rose within him, things he did not know how to deal with, things he had not been prepared to handle: sorrow, pride, longing. He moved straight on to work on the poleyns, trying to ignore even the small shiver that came from the sovereign as the tips of his fingers grazed against skin, even if it felt like burning.

 

Arthur must have felt some of it, too, because he cleared his throat and spoke.

  
“Don’t be afraid.”

 

The padawan rose his eyes, staring straight at him, and wondering how he could be so misjudged.

 

“I’m not afraid — not to die, at least. There’s nothing to fear in dying — nothing that should scare me. I’ll be dying in the service of the Republic, as I’ve always expected to die. You taught me that, that we in serving we give all of ourselves, and ask for nothing in return. And even if I _were_ the type to ask - I could ask for nothing better, no better death than defending the ideals we’ve lived for. Death — that does not scare me.”

 

Arthur’s eyes never left his, and there was something in its depths that made Merlin understand that, for the first time, he was being seen as an adult, an equal, as someone worth of respect — and even more. The king gave him a single nod, accepting his words, taking them seriously. It made his heart beat faster, and Merlin sought refuge in continuing with his work.

 

“I’m not trying to buy us time with this. I’m just honouring you, because you deserve it. Count Peter was right about one thing, Arthur: you _are_ what give us all hope, where we can truly see the ideals of the Republic. So in serving you, I serve her.”

 

That made the other man snort, a self-deprecating sound.

 

“I’m nothing special — I’m nothing different. I’m good with a sword, that’s all.”

 

“That’s not true,” Merlin disagreed, as he untied the cuisses. “Your people love you. All of Albion respects you, and that is not for your sword skills alone.”

 

“They chose me as their representative,” the blond man’s voice was filled with guilt. “They warned me to stay safe — as did my father, and the Jedi, and you — but here I am, and what have I achieved with it? Absolutely nothing. I should be more discerning. Wiser. A statesman.”

 

Merlin shook his head, because it was hard to have to put into words what should have been obvious.

 

“You were honourable and you wanted to help a friend.”

 

“Big help,” he snorted. “I seem to have only caused exactly that I came to prevent — Mordred’s death — and I’m dragging you down as well.”

 

“You didn’t force me to come,” the padawan reminded him.

 

“No — but I did not give you a choice. I knew you had orders to keep me in your sights.”

 

Merlin sighed, for while this was true, it was always a simplification that did not match reality.

 

“We both know that, in my heart, there was nothing else to be done but come for Mordred. I could not leave him here any more than you could. If you failed, so did I, in preventing you to come. It doesn’t matter, there is no blame to be placed.”

 

He stood up, moving his hands towards the vambraces, but his eyes rushed to meet Arthur’s, and it was as if nothing else mattered. The padawan did not stop moving, knowing what to do without knowing how, mind completely away from the task as he stared into the baby blue irises. None of them spoke, and yet, it seemed that words floated around them, unsaid — all the things they had never admitted to, all the emotions that suddenly seemed about to bubble on the surface of his heart. It seemed unreal that they were about to die, for never before had he felt more alive. It was as if his whole body tingled, vibrating with energy. From the depths of his mind, he recalled the King explaining to them how Camelotians celebrated before a battle, tasting all the sweetest things life had to offer, for it may be gone so soon. His heart beat faster in considering it, in imagining — wishing — to do exactly that, to _feel_ as he had never allowed himself to feel before it was all over. He longed to lose himself in the blue that gazed back at him, and involuntarily his eyes dropped down to the lips so close to his, which made him lick his own mouth, suddenly thirsty but what for he could not say.

 

“I wish I could not feel guilty,” the King started, his voice a low rumble. “Not just about my failure here, but about… Other things.”

 

A part of Merlin ached to ask what things he referred to, but another part was afraid to ask — fearing disappointment. His hands felt clammy and he felt clumsy, and the best he could do was to sought refuge in what he knew best: loyalty and honesty.

 

“Don’t feel guilty on my account, sire. If this is to be the end, there’s no one else I’d rather be with.”

 

The padawan felt his body tremble as the king’s pupils widened with something that far more than just desire. Automatically, his mouth parted, and he leaned his head seconds before Arthur’s hands, the same ones he had just freed from the gauntlets, curled themselves around his body, pulling him closer. The chainmail was cold against his roughspun garments, but Arthur’s lips were hot against his, the smoothness of the sensitive skin clashing with the fierceness of the movement, his tongue the most welcome invader in the universe. Arthur kissed like he lived: like a warrior, like a king, a conqueror. The touch of his saliva burnt Merlin’s skin, and it felt like branding, like he was being enslaved once again — not by the man, but by himself, for he’d never give that feeling up. Every inch of him tingled, and he gasped, welcoming the sensations even if they threatened to drown him. It was worth it — it was worth it all.

 

They were both panting when they parted, but all insecurity was now gone. Merlin’s hands felt strangely deft as they caught the hem of the chainmail, pulling it up and out of Arthur’s body. The king’s arms rose to help him, and, as soon as they were free of the armour, encircled the younger man’s body. Merlin could feel how they were both pulsating with want, but as their eyes met, there was more than desire in it. There was no time to place or name it, not when something far more primal than reason was demanding more. He let go of the metal in his hands, uncaring to where it’d fall or the noise it’d make, all that mattered was having his hands free to bring Arthur closer still, to feel him.

 

The King was now pulling his tunic back, having discarded his belt and obi, and he could feel the warmth and the hardness of his muscles as their torsos were pressed together. Running one hand through Arthur’s strong spine, Merlin let his hand sink beneath the silken, gold hair, moulding his skull and pulling the man closer to him, until he could capture his lips. He’d show Arthur — he’d give it back as good as he got, he’d command and control, and _have_. The moan that escaped the king’s lips was the sweetest reward he ever received, and still he wanted more. He wanted it all — more than just Arthur’s body, but touching his soul, mingling completely until no one could tell them apart.

 

Something inside him unfurled, rushing towards Arthur, wrapping him, claiming him as he had been claimed, bonding the two of them. It should have been impossible — no way for them to be thus connected, not when Arthur was Force-blind — and yet, there was no denying it, no questioning it, no stopping it. Something inside the King opened up, welcoming him, blossoming under the touch of his Force signature, and suddenly Merlin could _feel_ everything he did. For just one moment, there was no telling them apart, and the onslaught of emotion — desire — pleasure was almost too much.

 

Then, the swoosh of the door echoed through the cell, disturbing the moment. Merlin blinked as he opened up his eyes again, for it was as if he had forgotten all about the universe outside of them. He needed a moment to place the protocol droid, who seemed unsure of how to react to the scene in front of it.

 

“My lords,” was all it said, before bowing and starting to collect the pieces of armour that were now scattered through the floor. Neither men spoke as it worked, unsure of what to do. Once the droid was done with the armour, it turned again towards them. “I’ve been asked to inform you that your execution is set for one hour from now. I hope you have a pleasant stay.”

 

Their hands sought each other of their own accord, their fingers intertwining, knowing their heartbeats were counted and that in reaching for each other, they were also doubled, stronger, echoing through infinity.

 

There was no need for words.

 

* * *

 

 

Just as promised, one hour later, a score of guards came to bring them to their fate. It would be funny how, even unarmed, they were considered dangerous enough to need a escort of over a dozen, if not for the fact that they were completely at their mercy. It was not a feeling Arthur was used to, not one that he had ever truly needed to deal with. He had been on tight spots before, but never so thoroughly without a way out. He thought, fondly, of the sword he had just won, left behind on their ship because it was far too conspicuous. The hunting knife that he _had_ brought outside had been apprehended along with Merlin’s lightsaber. With his armour gone, all that protected them were the soft fabric of their vests.

 

Not very reassuring.

 

Still, he did not try to resist when they clamped chains in his wrists, it would not have been dignified. He would not taint his honour for a slim chance of escaping, and even if he _could_ do it by himself, he would not leave the people that had once stood by him against unsurmountable odds to pay the price for his mistakes. He would never be able to live with himself if he were to become a traitor in the top of it all. The Geonosian guards led the two of them through a series of tunnels, neither up or down, just continuously outwards. Their electric pikes buzzed around them with an annoying noise, and they seemed to be eyeing them wearily. Arthur grinned at one of them, who, in turn, growled before being shushed by what must be a superior.

 

Slowly, the king started to recognise the sounds coming towards them. It was nothing like the machinery they had passed or the gathering of politicians they had meant to infiltrate — no, there was something far more primitive about it, as if thousands of throats worked as one, animated by the same feeling. With a last turn, he could finally glimpse their final destination.

 

Arthur had known that their execution was to be a spectacle. It would be used to show the power and importance of the Confederation, to boost their morale and increase their numbers. He had, however, considered it so in political terms. Reality was that their demise was to be more than just a show of statecraft, it would be _entertainment._ That, more than anything else, bothered the warrior: he had expected to be granted at least a measure of dignity in his dying. Instead, they were trying to turn them into a laughing stock. Anger made him shiver as they forced him to step up into the hovering cart, but the warmth of Merlin’s body as he was brought up as well grounded him.

 

He looked, once again, at the impossibly blue eyes of the padawan, amazed at how quickly he had grown in his heart, how fast he had gone from being a child he thought of fondly to a man whose faith and strength boosted his own. The younger man’s expression was firm, no sign of distress, even in the face of death. He offered Arthur a nod, mute reassurance that, whatever had been planned, he would not have to face it alone.

 

Some would say it was not much.

 

It was _everything_.

 

The cart moved forward, and all of his senses were assaulted by the reality outside the tunnels. The crying out loud of many voices tore at his ears, and his eyes were blinded by sunlight, reflecting on the stones red as the blood that was to be spilt. Dirt rose in big clouds under the vehicle, clinging to their skin, and they could smell the conglomeration from far away. Once his eyes adjusted to the clarity, Arthur could see that they were in an arena, clearly built for this sort of ritual. He tried to remember what he knew about Geonosian Gladiatorial Traditions, but nothing came to mind. It was a huge oval structure, columns and rails designed in intricate patterns like lattices, separating the public from the fighters. The place was crowded, as if they had packed as many people are possible to watch their demise. The only empty space came from the Honour Box, that rose alone above one  gate, with nobody in sight.

 

Although they could see from the beginning their destination — the four pillars in the middle of the area — the driver did not take them directly there, but circled around the perimeter first, allowing all to have a good view of the cattle coming for slaughter. There was no other way of calling it when they were not accorded the grace of weaponry. It was only when they were riding by the third quarter of the circle that Arthur noticed they were not alone in the arena.

 

Mordred was already there, fetters around his wrists, pined with his arms up to the westernmost column. His dark hair shone with red highlights under the Geonosian sky, and his jaw seemed to clench further as he saw them. His vests showed signs of the fight they had seen at the recording, and his beard was longer than usual. Next to the King, Merlin turned immediately towards his master, his face contorted in guilt, eyes glued to the man that had been the reason for their coming. Mordred stared back, but there was no softening of his expression this time around, just a tired sigh at their folly.

 

It made Arthur feel like a small child even though he owned Mordred no explanation. He could only imagine how it affected Merlin.

 

The cart approached the middle, stopping a few meters away from where the Jedi was tied up. The driver guided them down, pulling roughly at their arms for them to get out of the vehicle. There was no steadiness in their feet, but he did not care for niceties — according them would be a waste of time. Once they were close enough, the other man spoke, his voice rough — if out of annoyance or because of the stifling heat, he could not say.

 

“I had been wondering if you got my message,” there was a dark tone of mockery in Mordred’s words, and even as Merlin was pushed towards the third pillar, Arthur heard him snort.

 

“Yes — we retransmitted it, Master, as you requested,” there was something cheeky in his answer. “The Masters said they’d handle it.”

 

“Oh,” it was Mordred’s turn to scoff, as the guard secured Arthur’s chains on the middle column. “I guess _that_ explains why you two are here.”

 

“Doesn’t it?” Merlin shot back, and in turning to him, Arthur could see him grinning. “It’s not like the the Jedi Council could handle this alone.”

 

“Naturally not,” the Master clicked his tongue, eyeing them both. “So, whose brilliant idea was this?”

 

“Mine,” Arthur admitted, at the same time Merlin said “The clotpole’s!”

 

The king turned to him, indignant at the treatment, but it was hard to stay mad at Merlin’s wide smile. It was as if all the tension had left him, now that there was nothing left to lose, and he could just allow himself to enjoy the upcoming battle. It was a feeling a warrior knew too well. Shaking his head, he turned back towards his older friend.

 

“They were too far away — I thought we should come and rescue you.”

 

Mordred raise his eyebrows at the sentence, looking up to the shackles around his hands, before snickering.

 

“Good job.”

 

The irony was not lost on Arthur, and if the situation was less dire, he might even had been bothered, but there was little to do now but chortle at his own failure. He was about to retort when the crowd roared louder, drowning his thoughts. Looking up, Arthur could see the reason for the reaction: the Premium Box was now being filled. Over a dozen dignitaries were walking by, but at the distance, he couldn’t recognise most. There was no denying the bronze and silver blaze of Count Peter’s hair, contrasting with his black clothing, or Alined’s eager face, both on the first line of the box. In between them, a Geonosian stood, his vests studded with jewels that glittered under the sun. He wore a pointy hat embroidered with insignias and carried a rod that he rose, causing the spectators to silence. There was no doubt that this was Geonosis’ Archduke, and the power of the man shone through his every gesture.

 

The first time around, he spoke to the assembly in their native language, and Arthur could only gauge the meaning of his words by the gestures he made towards them and towards the gates. Afterwards, he switched to Galactic Standard, if for their benefit or the other Confederation’s politics, Arthur did not know or care.

 

“These three men had been found in our planet, having infiltrated our premises secretly and with complete disregard of our privacy and laws. They did not request entrance, they did not ask apply for meetings, but used subterfuge to invade and explore our land, using violence against our people and murdering our peacekeepers,” he stopped, allowing the information to sink in, and Arthur could only shake his head at the obvious manipulation of the situation. “The invading and selling of our secrets is, my lords, not only a betrayal of the ancient trust that Geonosis had put in the Republic, but also it’d shame us all if we allowed ourselves to be treated so and remained silent. Our trust has been breached, and so has our allegiance. They have, thus, been convicted of espionage against the sovereign System of Geonosis. The sentence for such a treasonous crime is death.” Another pause, and this turn, the archduke turned direct towards them before continuing. “We are, however, not without mercy. Instead of straight out execution, and considering the renown of our prisoners as warriors, we have decided to grant them the most traditional Geonosian rite: the Gladiatorial combat. Should you, by your own skill, defeat your opponent, your life will be spared.” There was something akin to a smile in his face, that served only to show how unlikely he thought it to be. “With your consent, dear guests,” he gestured towards the box, “my people,” his other arm, swished to encompass the audience. “Let the rites begin!”

 

 

Arthur could see some polite clapping in the box, but the sound was drowned by the wild cheers of the spectators that buzzed with excitement. On his right, he heard Merlin’s voice.

 

“I have a _bad_ feeling about this.”

 

The king could have chuckled at the obvious commentary, but his attention was too wrapped up in the three gates being opened up. For a moment, after the speech, he had had the wild hope that they were about to battle warriors — and he doubted not that, even unarmed, they might win against them. The case, however, was very different, as savage beasts were driven inside the arena to be pitted against their all too small human bodies. There were three of them, and they were the sort of thing that would have lived in Camelot’s children’s nightmares.

 

The first, being nudged in Merlin’s direction was similar to a huge cat, with long, sharp claws and rows of teeth. It had two eyes on each side of its head, black holes in the midst of the beige fur. From its back rose lines of dark spikes, though the long tail had none. The beast shook its head as it walked out, seeming to stretch with all feline grace, before roaring loudly.

 

The middle one, coming towards him, was a much sturdier creature. The large, leathered body reminded Arthur of an overgrown rhino, though this animal’s skin colour varied between grey and red. It was also not as smooth, and looked rock-hard. Apart from the long horn in front of the face, above the pierced snout, it had two equally large horns sprouting from its cheek’s. There was no grace in it, but the its power and dignity were undeniable.

 

The last of the three was the hardest one to phantom. It looked unbalanced like a young colt, but even more deadly for it, for its six long leathery legs ended in pincher claws that crushed the ground around it. The skin had a sickening green colour on the top, that turned white in the softer parts underneath the body. Its head was long and the top resembled an open Venus Flytrap, the two tiny eyes under it shone with malice. It opened up its mouth to screech at them, showing two rows of teeth. One of the guards tried to use their pike to make it continue walking, but it immediately stepped on them, crushing their frail bodies.

 

Arthur saw Mordred shake his head from the corner of his eye.

 

“Acklays. I hate Acklays. Why did I have to end up with an Acklay?”

 

“You can have my nexu,” answered Merlin from his other side. “Cats always like you.”

 

“Just… try not to die, will you?” the Jedi requested, but to whom, Arthur could not tell.

 

The monsters were closer now, and seemed to finally have gotten their scents. Arthur watched as the three observed them, predator to prey, choosing how to strike.

 

“Nevermind, I’ll take the Acklay and turn it towards the Nexu if you can take the reek on your own?” Mordred asked, always polite, looking at the king. “The middle one, that is.”

 

“What about Merlin?” he couldn’t help but asking, because even if he understood all too well the impetus of protecting the padawan, Mordred seemed not to be bothering with giving him instructions. The Jedi raised his eyebrow, looking up and past Arthur with a small smirk.

 

“Well, he does seem to be on top of things for now.”

 

Looking to his other side, Arthur noticed that Merlin had used his chain as a rope, and climbed to the top of the column, far from the clutched of the animal coming for him. He caught their eye and grinned, before fashioning the metal into a whip. The king felt the ground tremble, and looked back in time to see the reek charging at him like some angry bull.

 

There was no time to consider what anyone else was doing, all that he could do was to try and survive the onslaught. Arthur waited until the final moment before throwing his body to the side, away from the trampling hooves and on to the ground. The beast hit the pillar head on, making it crumble. The king had to roll again, away from the debris, but the animal was not so fast. Taking advantage of its temporary confusion, Arthur stood up and ran, jumping as high as he could. It was barely enough, his foot stepping on to one of the horns for a second impulse that allowed him to land on the beast’s back. The reek shook its head, clearly angry at the intrusion, but riding was something the king had learnt before he could properly walk, and his body automatically adjusted to the movement.

 

Taking one deep breath, he threw his chain in a hoop, as if he were a cowboy ready to capture a wild horse. It looped neatly around the middle horn, and Arthur wondered if his old instructor would have been proud of the movement. Not likely, since he would have advised against coming in the first place. Master Seward had ever been a worrier. Having the beast secured, he sat down. It was nothing like riding a horse, but it was the best he could hope for. Having been bound, still the beast fought against him, trying to dislodge the unwanted rider. Arthur was ready for it, though, and weathered it well, enjoying the wild movement and using it as an opportunity to observe how his friends were coping.

 

First thing he noticed was that there was no one on his left side: whatever had been the beginning of the clash, Mordred’s chains were now gone from the post where he had been. Looking around, Arthur caught the sight of him, rushing to the other side of the arena, the chain as a very long metal tail, and towards one of the guards. The Acklay was following, but its ungainly steps were still quite far from the Jedi one’s.

 

“Heeeey!” Merlin’s indignant voice cut through the air, and buckling down on his mount, Arthur turned to the other side to see what was happening. Merlin was still on the top of the column, and it seemed the nexu had been trying to climb it like a cat with a scratching pole. The chain was completely gone from the padawan’s wrists, how he could not say, and seemed to have been effective at keeping the opponent at bay until that moment. A the sharp claws had ripped through Merlin’s clothes right above his left hip, and tore through skin as well. Even from the ground, Arthur could see the bright shine of blood. “That was not nice!”

 

He could’ve snorted, because no one else would have thought of scolding a Nexu as if it were a misbehaving pet. As the feline jumped towards him again, Merlin simply stretched out his arm, throwing the huge animal away as if it were no heavier than a rag doll. It flew a few meters through the air, before bouncing on the floor and rolling away. He had seen Jedi doing it before with other people, but never with something that size, and yet, it seemed effortless. Merlin turned towards him with a grin, as if they were sharing a particularly amusing moment.

 

“How are you holding up?” Arthur asked, because there seemed to be nothing else to say.

 

“Top of the world,” Merlin spread his arms, showing his position. “How about you, cowboy?”

 

“Not bad,” the energy was infectious. “Might have found a new hobby.”

 

“Might have,” Merlin agreed, before looking at something behind them both. “Master!”

 

It was impossible to say if Mordred could hear the yell, but Arthur’s head spanned towards the place where the acklay was. His intention seemed to have been using one of the soldier’s pike’s against the monster — one of the guards’ body’s lay on the floor beside them, crunched by the beast. It seemed, however, that the creature was smarter than Mordred had counted on, and the pike was now on the ground, broken in two.

 

There was no time to waste with considering what to do; looping the chain once again around the reek’s neck, Arthur encouraged it to move towards them. He could only hope he’d be quick enough as he watched Mordred jumping around to avoid the claws, as if it was some sort of jig. Arthur tried to rush things along, but the reek was not as obedient as a true mount, and he felt his blood go cold as he saw Mordred tumble to the floor and the ackley step where his arms were. The king let out a sigh of relief as he saw the other man stand up, arms now unbound from one another, and finally saw him arriving.

 

Planning seemed to be completely out of the menu for the day, but Arthur was good at improvising. Using his chain as a whip, he hit the reek once again, and in it’s anger and annoyance, the animal dashed forward, shaking its head in trying to get rid of the fetters binding him, and hitting the acklay in the process. The beast trembled and crashed on the floor, but it was a minor injure, even if it let blood flowing freely. Mordred turned his head, looking at him with a grin.

 

“Nice mount, sire!”

 

“Come on up,” the king replied, offering a hand.

 

The Jedi climbed behind the king, and put it’s hand on the beasts back in a soothing manner. The reek trembled one last time before settling down, seeming calmer. Arthur considered asking what Mordred had done, but there was no time — the acklay was standing up again, and there was no way they could fight him without weapons.

  
“Let’s lure him down,” Mordred shouted, and Arthur turned once again towards the middle of the arena, where Merlin still stood on the pillar, playing with the nexu.

 

Arthur felt Mordred’s arm curling around his torso as they moved ahead, the grip keeping them steady on the back of the animal as it ran. The ground shook with the power of its hindquarters, and the nexu turned its attention to them, accessing the danger they posed, before it spotted the acklay behind them. While Arthur couldn’t afford looking, his nostrils informed him that the animal was bleeding copiously, leaving a trail where he moved, and it was too easy of a prey for the nexu to ignore.

 

Skipping them completely, the large feline jumped ahead, away from them and towards the other beast. The king did not bother with watching the brawl between them, focusing instead on the padawan standing on the top of the column.

 

“What are you waiting for?” he demanded, annoyed. “Jump!”

 

It was all the invitation Merlin needed, before leaping down. He landed neatly on the top of the animal’s back, only to sprawl himself to the back, almost falling on the top of the other two. Mordred steadied him, scoffing, as Merlin lowered himself in front of Arthur.

 

“One would think, after all this time dancing around on a pole, you’d be better at balance.”

 

“One would think that you’d be more grateful for being rescued,” Merlin retorted, and Mordred chuckled.

 

“We’re not out of the woods yet, my young padawan.”

 

Arthur did pay attention to the answer — though he never doubted there was one, by the way Merlin turned his body backwards, looking at his master behind, though it did not seem to involve words as much as gestures — instead he turned their mount back towards the beasts. He was not surprised to see the nexu had won, and was now chewing on some of the acklay. It still left them with the issue of _how_ to defeat it without weapons, but, if the confusion in the archduke’s box was anything to go by, they were making far more headway than expected.

 

The king observed as the nexu rose its head once again, four eyes aiming at them, all intent on attacking, but the padawan in front of him once again rose his arms pushing it away, and it rolled even further than before, crashing with a loud thud on the gate beneath the premium seats.

 

“It won’t last forever,” Mordred warned them, but it didn’t need to.

 

Now they could see that there was a new source of agitation up in between the politicians, that were no longer noticing their presence. The reason for it became clear in a flash of purple.

 

Up at the top, Master Deaton’s lightsaber shone, pointed towards the archduke’s throat. Count Peter’s surprise was shown by merely an elegant tilt of his head, as he turned towards his old friend.

 

“How kind of you to join us, Master Deaton;” his smile was feral, and he gestured towards the three of them on the floor. “We were just about to see the final results — though I’d advise that this two boys of yours need more training. They’re certainly not up to the order’s standards — a lot of raw energy, yes, but no finesse.”

 

The Jedi, however, was not impressed by the little speech.

 

“I think not, Peter. This is more than enough. This party is over with.”

 

And, as if this were a signal for hope, Arthur saw as dozens and then hundreds of forms stood up in the arena, in shades of sand, beige and brown, dropping down to reveal all sorts of species and sizes, similar only in the shimmer around them in the air as a hundred lightsabers rose in the air.

 

The Jedi had come to rescue them.

 

* * *

 

 

As all Jedi younglings, Mordred had grown to bedtime stories about the Great Galactic War, a time, so long ago that it was almost out unreal, back when the Sith Empire was at its height and the Jedi fought to save the Republic in true armies, full battalions of combatants, lightsabers standing ready to defend freedom. It was a sight of fairy tales, a sight never again to be seen, a sight that could only be imagined.

 

It was also the sight greeting him now.

 

Mordred could only stare in disbelief as among the whole crowd, the Jedi rose, defiant and ready to defend their own. It sparked an emotion in him he could not name, though it might be called awe. He was glad to see the same thing shone through his padawan’s eyes, and for the first time since being caught, he truly dared to hope. This must be what people felt when they were reunited with their families, that had to be what they meant by feeling home.

 

His family was all around him, his home was where they were, and this was their battle.

 

For the freedom. For justice. For the Republic.

 

He did not pay attention to the exchange going on in the top box, not when two dozen Jedi had jumped down and rushed towards them, ready to defend their own. His throat was clenched shut as he saw Morgana coming towards them, her yellow blade parting their bonds, leaving them free. Alis-Sen, next to her, handled both him and Merlin spare lightsabers, and he could do nothing but bow in acceptance, ignoring the scores of Geonosians that were now fleeing the scene.

 

“I believe this is yours, little brother;” Morgana’s voice was filled with some unnamed emotion as she handed the King an elaborated sword. He took it, reverently, and she smiled sadly. “Use it wisely.”

 

“I try,” Arthur’s voice, too, was strangled, and he exchanged a glance with Merlin that Mordred did not understand.

 

Some other time. It was not the place.

 

There was no time for more, for soon enough the arena was swarmed with battle droids. They seemed to pour like the rain in Kamino, flooding the arena, thousands of them coming from every gate. Together, they formed a circle in the middle of it, a ring of protection against their fast-coming shots. They may be only machines, but the sheer number of them made them a power to be reckoned with.

 

Taking a deep breath, Mordred allowed himself to become merely an instrument of the Force. He did not need to know where to strike — he did not need to think. All the needed was to let it flow through him, guiding his hand and coming to match every bolt in his direction. The presence of other Jedi is like a dam, holding them at bay, stronger as they are together. More than physically, Mordred can feel each and all in the Force, as if they were a centipede running together to tear away metal bacteria.

 

Still, the same way that the Force made them stronger as they united, it made them feel the losses all the more keenly. Mordred never saw Master Aglain enter the arena, but he could feel it in bones as life left him. There wouldn’t have been time to mourn even if the Jedi _did_ mourn. While they lash and defeat hundreds of robots, hundreds more kept trickling inside, new and shiny, careless of the waste they were.

 

For a moment, in the middle of battle, they all stopped and Mordred's heart with them. The beats seemed to come, slowly, all of them together. Somewhere in the mess of bodies and energies, he feels the hope that they have won. Images flash in the midst of their shared consciousness: the explosion of a ship, an army becoming statues, the surge of freedom -- he can recognise the thought as Arthur's and for just a second wonder how he had come to be linked to them all -- but his memory knew better than to expect it to be the end.

 

As swiftly as they stopped, the droids came back up, their system adjusting to the lack of central control. They had learnt from their mistakes and wouldn't make things so easy for them now. Mordred tried to ignore as he saw someone being caught in surprise and fall. His blade standing tall, he readied himself for the renewed attack, as more and more fresh troops were sent against them.

 

In the end, the Jedi are still only flesh.

 

Slowly, they started loosing ground, having to walk back to the centre where they had started. The floor was filled with spare parts of mangled droids, the blood and bodies of Geonosians — many with signs of having been shot by their own careless troops — and more fallen lightsabers and bodies than they could have lost.

 

They were being cornered and they knew it, but there was preciously little they can do to avoid it. Mordred could feel more than see Master Deaton at his back, Morgana and Alis-Sen fighting, Stiles and a blond Jedi, Arthur and Merlin moving in such a perfect unity that it made his heart clench. At that very moment, Mordred loved them all for simply existing, he loved them: selflessly, completely, purely.

 

It was still not enough to stop the enemy.

 

Those Jedi who were sent to turn off the droids were escorted back, their faces resigned as they reached their comrades. Once again, the droids stopped, their weapons turned towards the Jedi in the middle of the arena. Still, there was no trepidation, no fear, from their group. They shared their strength, as they had shared their pain.

 

“Master Deaton!” Count Peter called out, his voice resonating in the whole arena, and all of them turned along, trying to see what had become of the man that had once been one of them. “Surrender, and your lives will be spared!”

 

There was nothing, however, in his voice of the Master that Mordred once admired, the man that only the day before sounded so afraid for the Republic, not even of the politician that had spoken earlier. Everything about him was now hard and unyielding as he demanded their absolute and unconditional surrendering.

 

“We will not be hostages for you to barter with, Peter,” Master Deaton answered, and Peter tilted his head to the side, as if they were peculiar puzzle pieces he needed to assemble just right.

 

“Not one of you? Not even you, Stiles?” his piercing blue eyes seemed to be fixed on the child even at the huge distance between them, and Mordred's heart skipped a beat as he heard the man name the padawan he had once meant to train. “Not even the child the Jedi took? Not even if your planet would be able to do what they mean to do if only you’d give up this corrupt and failed Order?”

 

Many times before Mordred had felt guilty for choosing Merlin first, for keeping his word to Nimueh, for failing in the promised he had made before to protect this child who should not have had to be singled out like that.

 

He forgot, though, that this was no longer a child, but a young man of their order. His back stood straight and his lightsaber up as he answered.

 

“I would never stray into the Dark path you seem to follow, Peter. My place is with the Jedi Order.”

 

It was more courage in accusing him than any of them had had, the adolescent could see clearly the reality that they had denied for far too long, long enough to brew this disaster. The former Jedi scoffed at it, shaking his head.

 

“You have grown into a foolish young man, Stiles. So be it,” for a second, Count Peter paused, watching over them all, his face showing at once longing, regret and scorn. “I am sorry, my old friends” he started, looking first at Deaton, and then encompassing their whole group. “You will have to be destroyed."

 

And as the politician pulled out his own lightsaber, its blade shining in unnatural red, darkness seemed to swallow all that had once been one of the greatest masters of their order. The droids engaged their weapons once again. Involuntarily, Mordred took a step back, meeting Arthur and Merlin's bodies, the three of them standing together as they had before the rest of the Jedi arrived, the same though echoing through their hearts.

If they were to go down, they'd go down fighting.

 

The Republic deserved as much.

 


	14. Chapter 14

 

Count Peter was not a man that hesitated, even if some foolishly sentimental part of him felt sad that he was about to see the dying of the Order that had raised him. That same stupid bit felt proud that they were still ready to fight, ready to defend themselves and their government, and not for the first time, he thought that the Republic did not deserve them. They were too good, too skilled, too special to be minions following orders. No, there had to be _more_ for them.

 

He turned on his lightsaber, ready to lower it and begin the onslaught of what had once been his family when sirens started blaring. It came from everywhere, not just the arena, but its shape made the echo stronger. Cautious, he merely observed, immobile as a statue. The droids, smarter than their predecessors, moved backwards, waiting for the new threat. The few spectators that hadn’t run before, did so now, but they were beneath his notice.

 

From the corner of his eye, he could see how spineless Alined gripped Trickler’s arm, he could feel the trembling of the Archduke as his rigid robes brushed against Peter’s own. Some of the other representatives on the box started moving backwards, looking for safety even before knowing what they were fleeing from. There was nothing Peter could feel about them but scorn. It was pitiful that he should have to ally himself with that sort of people, but need makes one accept strange bedfellows.

 

Neither fear nor anger touched him as the source of the noise became clear: six gunships, descending from the sky into the middle of the arena. Count Peter did not look up, for the continuous noise told him those were just the vanguard. They were being attacked, in full. War, now, was all but declared. His smile was genuine — there couldn’t be better timing for such an arrival if he had carefully planned it.  They were ugly, ungainly things, but they’d serve their purpose.

 

Even the Jedi seemed surprised by their arrival, not sure, at first, if those were friends or foe. The soldiers inside, completely clad in white, their faces hidden, must have looked to them like more of the enemy. There was, however, one presence that could not be mistaken, not only because of its obvious appearance, but also because it shone through the Force with a thousand years of experience.

 

His former Master was here.

 

Peter watched without moving as the Grandmaster of the Order stepped away from one of the gunships, gesturing his knights inside as if they were younglings being taken from school. His large wings opened up, as if he could keep them all under it, and Peter snorted, wondering when he’d notice it was pointless. The sight of Master Kilgharrah robbed the dignitaries still in the box of the last of their courage, and they fled inside, leaving Peter alone in the box.

 

The presence was an amusing surprise, but it didn’t worry him. As his once tutor looked up, he held himself against his stare, without giving up any ground. He saw as the golden eyes flickered towards his new lightsaber, he could feel the sadness and disappointment in the small shake of head. If he were less dignified, Peter would have scoffed at such an emotional reaction. As it were, he merely offered him a small bow with his head, before lowering his blade.

 

“Aim to kill,” he ordered the droid armies.

 

As blasts and blades rained inside the arena, he turned around and left.

 

Battles were the concern of Generals, the reason why he had built his own to perfection.

 

He had greater plans to hatch.

 

* * *

 

 

War had been his childhood and his youth.

 

Even after all that time, the uncounted and uncountable years in between, he could remember it well. The aftertaste never truly left his mouth, as the ashes of his once mighty people. Strife, suffering, pain.

 

Closing his eyes briefly, he allowed it all it be washed away. It was not time for memories.

 

These were not dragonlords, but Jedi. And their opponents were mere droids.

 

The betrayal was still the same, but it could not tear at him the same way.

 

With a nod of his head, the gunships rose again to the sky, taking away the bruised and battered Jedi.

 

He turned his head towards the two masters by his side.

 

“There are more battalions to the left, and something of a command centre to oversee the troops — I trust you’ll handle it, Master Ruadan.”

 

“I’ll do my best — they’ll not get away with this,” answered the battlemaster, and he could only nod, even if he knew he should not encourage such bloodthirsty answer.

 

“We’ve lost Aglain,” commented Alator, his voice soft, and the tattoos on his face resembled the tears they would not shed for their companion. “He should never have come — this is not the place for consulars.”

 

“We’re all Jedi, first and foremost,” reminded Kilgharrah, with a sigh. “Aglain was not the only casualty, was he?”

 

“I’d say we lost a bit over a dozen,” answered Ruadan, already engrossed at the readings he could see in the side panels, showing the rest of their forces. “Not too bad, considering the numbers.”

 

That it was far more than they could lose, none of them said. Some things were better left unsaid.

 

“I fear we had a bigger lost this day than even the death of our comrades,” he confessed, feeling the weight of his own failure.

 

“You mean Count Peter,” Alator replied, although there was no other option. “Yes, I think it is clear that he has left the path of Light for good.”

 

“Baaah,” Ruadan gestured with his hand, dismissing it. “He’s just one man. He was very good, I’ll grant you that, but we can defeat him in the field, I’m sure.”

 

“It’s not his military skills that concern me,” Kilgharrah admitted, looking out at the desert fields that were now taken by troopers and their equipment, racing towards the droid army, intent on tearing it to bits. Death and destruction spread underneath them, from both sides, and yet his mind was on his former pupil. “It is the power he’ll lend to the Darkside as he fights us.”

 

He did not need to look to know that Master Ruadan watched him without truly understanding or that his worries were mirrored in Master Alator’s face.

 

The strengthening shadows were his true enemies in this war.

 

* * *

 

Nothing could have prepared him for the sheer size of the Battle of Geonosis. In spite of all his experience, Master Deaton had never seen anything quite like it. He knew the numbers, he had helped plan their attack, and yet — it was far from the reality of the confront around him. He looked at his padawan, allowing a small line of worry to cross his face as he saw Stiles’ shocked face at the army the Kaminoans had built them.

 

He’d have to adjust to it, they’d all have.

 

As the six ships that had carried them from the arena lowered them into the middle of the army, he considered what would be the best strategy to finish this as soon as possible. Not that he had any illusions about this being won at a single shot.

 

They were at war.

 

While Geonosis and its foundries were to be big part of their contingent, the separatists had managed to gather far too much support — far too much money — to have all its eggs in one basket. Even if they, somehow, miraculously, managed to destroy all the forces that were in this planet, more would come.

 

Alone or with their padawans, the Jedi ran, spreading themselves through the multiple gunships. Part of his brain was registering Master Ruadan’s instructions to the troopers that did not get their own Jedi, but in his ship, command would fall on him. They had to trust each other’s skills and knowledge. As he stepped in, followed by his padawan, the commanding trooper addressed him.

 

“What are your orders, Sir?”

 

“Let’s focus on the ships,” he said, looking up at the multitude of fleeing cruisers. Deaton was not so worried about the passenger ships, but each of the larger ones meant thousands of battle droids being taken away from the planet, ready to strike somewhere else.

 

“As you command,” the trooper answered, and they were in the air once again.

 

Underneath he could see the two forces meeting like when two opposing rivers met. The white of the clone troopers armour was slowly being covered by the red sand, but their shots were green flashes aiming at the drones who stood in their way. Apart from foot soldiers, big walkers aimed at the ships that tried to rise to the air, as he had requested.

 

Four different walkers and his own gunship aimed at the same cruiser, a spherical monstrosity that could probably carry ten thousand droids. Fire was slow in breaching the hull, but their work paid off, and Deaton could only watch as it started to come down. The clones did not waste time, but started aiming at the next one before it even hit the ground — but the master knew from that first attempt that for each one they shot down, at least three would escape intact.

 

Deaton was not ready for the impact of the ship crashing down on the ground. For all his strategy, all his knowledge, he hadn’t truly known what it would be like when it landed: the squashing of the droids underneath, its format making it turn ahead like some mechanical snowball, crushing friend and foe alike; the rising of a huge sand-cloud that blocked their sight, making the world opaque, the only light around being the deadly flashes of blasters without true aim.

 

Master Deaton took a deep breath, steadying himself, centring himself against the despair brought by the circumstances. Those were the weapons of the darkside; and he would not yield to them. Even if they couldn’t see the path ahead, he had to trust Light would guide them all out of it.

 

It was their only option.

 

* * *

 

 

There had been no question once they were divided into ships — Merlin had been sent to follow his Master, Arthur with them. He had worried that, after everything, he’d be stuck in baby-sitting duty to a short-tempered King, but the Council must have known that there was no way Arthur would stay away from the fighting. He was, first and foremost, a warrior, and not an asset they could give up at this desperate fray, which was made perfectly clear as he had been greeted on the makeshift tarmac they landed right out of the arena with a whole new set of armour for him to wear. Arthur had wasted no time in donning his mail, and Merlin had been glad to help him with it, trying as much as possible _not_ to think of how things had ended last time the two of them were dealing with armour pieces. There were things that were better kept away from the sight of the other Jedi.

 

They rose through air as soon as they were all inside, and Merlin had to scramble to catch the hanging bars that were their support during the flight. He looked at Mordred, who seemed preoccupied with something he was listening in his intercom, while Arthur was already accessing the situation with the ARC Trooper. Looking at the fighting unfurling on the ground, Merlin wondered if he was truly ready to face what was coming.

 

“We should move away from here,” Mordred said, finally, and Arthur’s face was mutinous.

 

“I’m not hiding —”

 

“No,” Mordred agreed, gesturing in the map so the pilot saw where he wanted to go. “Not hiding — just — a change of target. There are enough people here, some of us are being sent to try and disable the factories.”

 

Arthur’s face lost some of its edge and he gave a short nod, but it was clear that he was not happy to be away from the middle of things. It was like seeing a small child being denied, and, had the situation not been so dire, he’d have smiled. Looking ahead, he could see their target: in the middle of the red-tinted lowlands, huge towers of metal rose, their reflection burning against the sun. They could see some smoke, and many coloured lights, all signs that even with the battle, the industry had not stopped, building more soldiers to increase their army.

 

The pilot was quick in shooting, but fire was spent unless it was used in the correct spot. Those towers would never crumble from the pitiful fire of a gunship — they needed to strike it right.

 

“Less eager and more strategy — aim right over the middle section, at those panels — they’ll do the trick.”

 

“Yes, sir!” echoed the man, pushing the buttons right away.

 

As Merlin had expected, the impact, however minimal, was enough to blow some of the power cells. Fire spread quickly as the whole energy section exploded, cutting the top from the bottom. In falling, the tower they had shot stroke at the one beside it, causing it to crack.

 

“Don’t waste any munition, aim at the same spot,” Mordred advised, granting Merlin a smile. “Well played.”

 

“Yeah, it seems you’re not _totally_ useless, are you?” teased Arthur, and Merlin shook his head with a laugh.

 

They were about to move to the second set of towers when something caught the King’s eye.

 

“Look!” he said, gripping Mordred’s forearm. The three of them turned to see a sleek speeder coming out of some invisible landing pad. It was followed by two others, flying in formation, as if ready to defend the person in the middle.

 

They might be a bit too far to see, but the presence ahead was impossible to confuse — dark and feral, like a hungry wolf.

 

“Follow him!” Arthur ordered, and the trooper turned towards Mordred, the question clear even though the face was hidden.

 

“You heard His Majesty,” his Master answered, gesturing ahead. “We can’t let him escape.”

 

While the Jedi stared ahead, as if willing the speeders to slow down, Arthur walked to the back, intercom in hand, the padawan’s eyes glued to his movements.

 

“We’ve just spotted Count Peter,” he informed the rest of the squad. “We’re breaking formation to chase after him.”

 

“You’ll need some help,” Morgana’s voice rang clearly through the device. “We’re coming to cover your back.”

 

“There’s no time,” Arthur warned her, watching her position on the ship map next to the door. “We can handle this.”

 

“Don’t be foolish,” Morgana’s voice started, but it was cut down by Mordred shouting.

 

“Hold on!”

 

Years of habit meant Merlin obeyed without even blinking, his hands curling more closely on the harnesses as an explosion rocked the vehicle. They lurched sideways, and he felt his feet leaving the floor. For a moment, all he felt was relief that he had been in time and then — as if the world had come to a lurch, as if time had slowed down to a trickle, he saw Arthur’s hand coming short of the grasping his own harness. His fingertips touched the metal like a caress, far too delicate to be of real use. The king’s other hand was still gripping the intercom, his sister’s voice shrill on the background like a harpy’s screech. One of his feet moved up, but the other was still grounded, and, for a moment, it seemed like he was about to regain balance — until the trooper, equally unstable, bumped into him.

 

Plasteel and metal met with a loud thud, and it was just too much for them, the extra weight pulling them down, through the gunship open door and down to the sandbanks underneath. Merlin’s heart stopped, unable to believe what he was seeing. His whole body grew cold, as if his very blood had stopped. There was no movement from the bodies bellow, and he didn’t even hear his own voice as he yelled.

 

“No! Stop! Go back!”

 

He tore his eyes away from the unmoving men to try, ready to force the pilot. Did he not understand what he had said? The clone’s head was tilted, clearly having heard, but he made no move to stop his chase. Merlin stepped ahead, ready to pull him forcibly out of the seat and coming back for Arthur himself, but something stopped him.

 

Warmth seeped in, bringing him back for a second. His eyes met Mordred’s, and his Master’s face was concerned, but not judging.

 

“We can’t stop,” he told Merlin, as the king became a smaller and smaller spot in the sands. “We’ve got a job to do.”

 

“I don’t care,” the padawan replied, his emotions in turmoil. He couldn’t fail, not again, it was his job to protect Arthur, and if he left him behind…

 

“We could _end_ this, today, if we caught Peter,” his master’s voice was pleading, as if he didn’t call all the shots. “Don’t let your feelings get in the way.”

 

And _that_ was such an impersonal, cold, Jedi thing to say, that it just made Merlin flare once more. Mordred didn’t understand — he would never understand — he would never _care_ that much. He didn’t _fail_ and when something didn’t go his way, well, it would be as the Force willed it, he could just _let go,_ because he would always have a place to go, someone to accept him. He would always have the Order, and Merlin; well; Merlin would always be their charity case, the child they would rather not have taken in, that was only tolerated because of Mordred. Arthur — Arthur was not like that. He had accepted Merlin on his own, and leaving him behind to cook under his armour in the sands was poor payment for the sort of loyalty that had made them come to Geonosis in the first place.

 

“Turn back,” he demanded, once again, freeing himself of Mordred’s hands and turning to the pilot.

 

“Merlin —”

 

“I can’t leave him,” the padawan pleaded, praying that his Master would understand even a part of it. “I can’t just — he is — I…”

 

Mordred closed his eyes, as if he couldn’t watch it, couldn’t hear it, couldn’t deal with the size of Merlin’s failure, with how far he had strayed from the path, but there had been no coming back after Arthur had stepped back in his life. They would always be walking to _this_ , to the realisation that he had failed the Order. He could still, however, _not_ fail Arthur.

 

“You’ll be expelled from the Order,” his master’s voice was sorrowful. “Would you truly leave it all behind for him?”

 

“Yes —” Merlin gasped, though it felt like something was being ripped from him as he saw Mordred’s grief, and even more as it turned to steel.

 

“And would he? In your position — would he just give up the chance and run back for you? Or would he _do his duty_?”

 

It was a low blow, because those were the two things that guided Arthur, and he couldn’t truly say what would be his choice. Merlin wanted to believe that Arthur would return for him, but, in reality, it was just as likely that he would postpone doing so until the threat of Peter was dealt with. He looked at Mordred, at loss for words, suddenly without anchors.

 

“I can’t catch him alone,” the older man said, his voice low. “The Republic _needs_ — _I_ need you with me to do this.”

 

It was Merlin’s turn to reach out, to touch his master, his hands curling around his arms, as if to make sure he was real — that this was really happening, and Mordred returned the gesture, his fingers hot against Merlin’s vest, his eyes shining towards him, completely open, and he could see the swirling emotions in its depths. There it was, the personal declaration of loyalty and care he had needed for so long, and coming just when he had given up hope completely. Part of him wanted nothing more but to rush back towards Arthur, just as another part knew that the King could never truly understand him like Mordred. Would Arthur even forgive him for foregoing his duty? Would he forgive himself and Mordred if something happened to the King? He had no certainties, no sureties, no idea what he should do, and all the while they kept moving further and further from the place he had fallen down.

 

The sound of the ship’s radio interrupted the moment between them.

 

“Don’t worry about my dear brother — I’ll pick him up and catch up with you.”

 

With Morgana’s promise ringing in his ears, he could finally breathe again, finally focus on the bigger picture and not on his wild panic.

 

“Keep following that speeder,” he told the pilot, and Mordred’s hand squeezed his arm in reassurance.

 

Arthur’s safety depended on more than just one moment, it depended on no longer being a target for the separatists and the only way of stopping _them_ was stopping Count Peter.

 

They would not let him get away.

 

* * *

 

 

It was not the way Mordred would have chosen to enter such a confrontation, but his reality had always walked far from ideal. He could feel a strain of recklessness in Merlin through the Force that might work against them, and for all the times he had told his padawan that he needed to keep his feelings in check, Mordred was not indifferent either. Something had happened — something had changed — during their last conversation. He had never expected that the idea of someone leaving would rattle him so much, but it was clear that there was far too much that he hadn’t contemplated about his own emotions.

 

He wondered what Nimueh would have said if she could see him now. Probably that being centred _in spite_ of his feelings was not the same as locking them behind a door and pretending they never existed.

 

The speeder was finally approaching its destination, and their gunship followed. Merlin’s body was half outside before they even stopped, and, for once, he kept his footing when jumping down. Mordred following him, trying not to be over-worried about his newfound eagerness as they walked into the cave-like space that served as parking for Peter’s elegant vehicle. They rushed inside, and Count Peter turned towards them. His bodyguards were nowhere to be seen, but his ship’s engines were already on, ready and waiting for him to make his escape. The man, however, did not seem to be in a hurry.

 

“Ah, gentlemen,” he said, his voice suave. “It seems you have found me.”

 

“We should take him together,” advised Mordred, but Merlin wasn’t hearing him, lightsaber turned on and walking ahead.

 

“You’ll pay for all the lives you’ve taken today, Peter.”

 

The count raised his red-blade to parry the attack, with a small smile, and Mordred walked to the side, looking for the best angle to strike, trying to predict what his padawan was doing.

 

“So brash — so uncivilised!” the older man announced, before thrusting his hand out, making Merlin’s body fly through the air, much like the younger man had done with the Nexu earlier. “I hope you appreciate the irony of having it used against you.”

 

Mordred saw from the corner of his eye the way Merlin’s body fell down from where it had hit the wall, seeming dazed. He raised his own lightsaber, but the former Jedi did not seem too concerned by the threat he presented.

 

“Mordred,” he started, a smirk on his lips. “Lower that. You’ll end up hurting yourself.”

 

Taunts might have worked on Merlin, but they were nothing alike.

 

“I’m not making it easy for you to run away.”

 

The count opened up both of his hands, as if to show he had no intention of doing so, but his calm wouldn’t fool anyone. He may be stalling, but this was not a man to simply hand himself in to the justice, not when he truly believed to be right in defying it. In that, he was just like Nimueh.

 

“I’m trying to protect you, my boy,” the older man said, his tone even more condescending than normal. “As you can see, my powers are far bigger than yours — you have no chance.”

 

“I don’t think they are,” Mordred answered, and it didn’t feel like bragging. It was obvious that the man was skilled, but catching an padawan unaware was far from a show of prowess. His dexterity with a lightsaber was well-known, but there was more in the Force than yielding a lightstick.

 

The knight kept his blade crossed along his body, protecting himself from an attack that wasn’t coming. Peter’s weapon remained in his hand, and he did step away when Mordred approached, keeping their distance even, but he made no move to attack.

 

“I’ve told you, you’re not my enemy. The Sith are.”

 

There was nothing to do but to scoff, eyeing the telling red blade. It was an incredible level of hypocrisy that Peter would repeat the same story while holding an obvious Sith weapon. The older man caught his eye and shook his head.

 

“Everything I’ve done in this last decade — it was all to defeat them. The Jedi Order has not changed since winning the last war, but _they have_. We cannot beat them from the outside, so I _needed_ to infiltrate them. For that, I had to leave the Order — and then, the Republic. If I told you, Mordred, the plans they have for the Republic — how long they’ve been manipulating them…”

 

“Enough,” the Jedi said, shaking his head. “I’m not here to listen to more lying.”

 

He stepped ahead, striking at the older man, not because he was angry but because whatever Peter was waiting for could only spell trouble for them. He moved his blade, right to left, and with a movement without any effort, Peter stabbed under his lightsaber and rose it in the air. The former master reversed his wrist, jabbing ahead, and Mordred had to jump backwards to avoid the burning blade. He tried a counter-attack, but it was too late, for Peter was already back at this defensive posture, ready for him, his blow wasted against the thin air.

 

There was nothing to do but attack — a flurry of strokes as he tried in vain to make contact. He let himself go, let his limbs move as quickly as they could, moving as fluidly as his Master once had. He could see it in Peter’s eyes, too, the memory of the woman he had trained in his moving, but while it bonded them, it didn’t change what they were now: enemies. Again and again Mordred tried to breach the defensive wall that Peter built around him, but he could not. Against his economical, contained style, Mordred’s attacks looked exaggerated, a child playing at swordplay.

 

It was not a surprise, not really. The Jedi may be experts in sword fighting, but Count Peter was a fencer. His fame among the Order had first come from mastering a style that they had long abandoned. Against blasters and other weapons, Makashi was useless, but it was unbeatable when it came to facing a enemy with a similar weapon. They had left it behind once it was clear that the Sith were no longer a threat, but even as a youngling, it had fascinated Peter, and he had held to it in spite of everything.

 

Now, it was paying off.

 

It didn’t matter how much Mordred leapt or spun around him, he was always ready. His steps went all in the same direction — front and back, never stepping right or left, his feet moving non-stop and impossible to hit. The attacks, when they came, were hard thrusts that made the younger man stumble backwards.

 

“Oh, you disappoint me,” Peter said, still smiling. “Nimueh spoke so highly of you, I was expecting _more._ How _disappointed_ she’d be in the two of you. _”_

That he would use the name of his deceased padawan to attack him shook Mordred to the core, and, in hearing him disparage Merlin, the knight discovered that he had pride. Shaking his head in lieu of an answer, he attacked once again, slashing and chopping. Angling his lightsaber left and right, Peter met each strike with a smile on his lips, as if the attempt amused him. Mordred’s breath was coming in pants, his energy spent against the unsurmountable barrage.

 

Taking a step back, he tried to get himself together, to steady his body. He knew he didn’t have long before his stamina ran out, making him an easy target, and probably Peter was well aware of that. With a deep breath, he centred himself in the Force, willing his mind to completely let go and let it flow through him.

 

It worked better than he could have ever expected, his blows coming with far more precision, the angle changing much more quickly. Wide slashes became sudden thrusts, and Count Peter was not ready for it. Now he had to work hard, trying to fend off the attacks that were outside of Mordred’s personal control, the red blade trying to keep the opponent at bay furiously.

 

A surge of joy jolted through him — soon he’d corner him.

 

The emotion came too soon, breaking the perfect balance, and suddenly the momentum was gone: his body was too far forward, while Peter remained in perfect balance. It made him vulnerable, and Mordred had but a second to notice his failure before the former Jedi was using it against him, keeping him unsteady, pushing him backwards as he tried to avoid the red blade.

 

Clearly, Peter had been toying him all along.

 

With a sudden step ahead, he stabbed Mordred’s thigh, and the knight could only gasp as searing pain took over him, his knee hitting the ground. He tried to regain his composure, but the next strike hit his shoulder, making him drop his lightsaber on the floor. For a second, he could do nothing but contemplate his upcoming death in the hands of the man that trained his own master, but that man was long gone, and there was a flash of red in Peter’s irises.

 

“I’ll put you out of your misery,” he announced, bearing his teeth like some predator about to kill, his saber raised high and about to come down and cleave him in two.

 

Mordred was ready to let go. Ready to abandon himself to the Force, to face death.

 

Death, however, was not ready to receive him.

 

With a shower of green sparks, Peter’s blade came to a halt.

 

His padawan was back in the game.

 

* * *

 

 

The sun was scorching, and Morgana truly couldn’t imagine how Arthur must be feeling under so much metal and with no cover against the weather. As they lowered themselves, he and the clone trooper next to him were just starting to come to their senses. Jumping down to the sand, she noticed an angry red patch on her brother’s right cheek. It looked like the skin wouldn’t resist for long, burnt, but it was nothing serious. More concerning were the dark streaks of sweat in his hair and face. Even though it was clear that he was far from his top condition, he refused her hand when she offered it.

 

Men.

 

The king sat down, shaking his head, as if trying to figure out how he had gotten into that situation. Morgana picked up the flask she had brought down, and that, at least, he did accept, drinking his share before passing it down to the trooper next to him. They did not have time to waste, but she didn’t want to rush him — he needed to be fully himself if he was to play his part properly.

 

The other troopers were now helping their brother in arms to return to the inside of the gunship, setting up the navicom to follow Merlin and Mordred’s ship. Arthur observed it but for a moment before hauling himself up and forcing his body to move inside. She said nothing, not yet. The shade would help, and more water, too.

 

As soon as he stepped inside, one of the troopers offered him a whole bucket of water, and Arthur lost no time in sinking his head inside. Under her careful gaze, he stood up again, throwing even more water in his face and neck, some of it trickling under the armour. She wondered how the metal reacted to it, and her nose was offended by the terrible smell of wet-wookie that came from the mix of sweat, fresh water and the leather that lined the underside of the armour in order to protect the skin from chaffing.

 

“Was I out long?” he asked, finally, and she shook her head.

 

“Just a couple of minutes,” she answered. “It was quite a tumble.”

 

“I bet,” Arthur shook his head, like some sort of dog trying to dry himself. Drops flew threw the air, hitting them all, but Morgana took no notice, watching as the other ship slowed down to some destination she couldn’t see yet. She could feel her brother’s eyes on her, but she did not return the gesture, observing the distance and how much time they had, how much time _she_ had to make him understand just how important this was. “You know, you are far scarier when you’re silent.”

 

Morgana grinned, shaking her head. She tucked her long dark hair behind her left ear, turning towards him.

 

“Are you sure about that?”

 

“No,” he replied, shaking his head. “I have the feeling I’m about to regret that sentence.”

 

She wanted to comfort him, but it would be a waste of time, time they did not have. They were approaching their destination at a fast pace, and if he wasn’t ready for it… That would be the end of hope for them all.

 

“You know the history behind your sword? The prophecies around it?” she asked, her voice eager, trying to save time. Arthur frowned.

 

“They’re just… Stories — myths — they’re not real,” and she couldn’t help but smile at the simplicity of his life.

 

“Yes, but stories and myths, they have to come from something; something _incredibly_ real. And the prophecies, too, they’re more than shallow declarations of men and women searching for a higher meaning; they are a glimpse beyond the veils of time, a whispered secret…” She sighed, because it was the sort of thing that was hard to explain to someone who never experienced anything even similar to the sense of being swept by the currents of destiny. “I won’t try and persuade you of how important they are. I just hope you’ll listen to me this time.”

 

“I always listen to you,” he answered, though they both knew it wasn’t true, and that if he _had_ done so, this whole chain of events might have been avoided. The same thought crossed his mind, and he flinched a bit. “I’m listening.”

 

It was all she could expect, it was all she would get.

 

“There are tales about the Once and Future King, that will unite all of Albion — what seems to be far from everyone’s minds is that _Albion_ was, at first, more than the name of a star system. When these stories first came to be, Albion was their word for galaxy. It was not a regional leader, not even a sovereign, it was a figurehead that could bring all to work together. A High King, if you will. Under _that_ logic, Aredian and the rest of Uther’s supporters have been fanning the flames and saying he’s the King of the prophecy but…” her eyes strayed to the shining blade in her brother’s hips. “I think it was made very clear that _you_ are the one.”

 

“I’m nothing special,” he answered, trying to avoid a burden that was far too heavy for anyone to carry. “I’m just — I’m not all that. Our father…”

 

“Is just a man, and a very flawed one at that,” Morgana couldn’t help but to have a stern tone in her voice. “There’s no point in trying to deny it — you know, in your heart, that it is true. You knew it when you pulled the blade out of the stone. It called you, and you answered — there’s no turning back. I’m not saying it’s fair, I’m not saying it’ll be easy, but it _is_ the only path for you: this war is _your_ war, not Uther’s. All the people in the Republic, they’ll be _your_ people, _your_ armies. The Jedi, of course, will be there to support you, and the clones… But there’s something only _you_ can do in this. The Separatists, they’re but puppets, not the true evil we’re fighting. You’ve seen them — you’ve felt them. The darkness lurking behind this fighting — that is your true goal, that is the real foe. That’s what you’re destined to beat.”

 

For a moment, he did not look like a man close to his thirties, but as the young, lost boy she had first met in the halls of Camelot. Her heart went out for him, but he did not need his sister, he needed the Seer.

 

“You don’t have to do it alone, though,” she offered, as comfort. “You were never meant to do it alone. There’s another — the other side of your coin. You’re the sword, to attack the darkness, he’s the shield to keep it at bay. Only together you can succeed… But for that you must make sure he survives. I love Mordred, but he’s no match for Peter, and Merlin — only you can save him, Arthur. You and him — there are many prophecies about the two of you — but you’re only strong _together_. Apart, you’re vulnerable. If you don’t run to him now, Peter _will_ kill him, and part of you, too, will die with him.”

 

It was clear that Arthur was at loss from words, but she had expected nothing else. She offered him more water, hoping it would make the whole thing easier to digest, but he shook his head.

 

“Have you seen him die?” he asked, finally, his voice small, and it was clear to her that the very idea terrified him, not because of her words, but for reasons she had been too blind to notice before.

 

“Not if you’re there,” Morgana answered, squeezing his hand.

 

“Captain, push it to full speed, please.”

 

As Morgana watched the firmness of his jaw after issuing his orders, she knew she could be proud of her brother.

 

He would not fail them.

 

* * *

 

 

It took all his strength to just hold the fierce slash that was going his Master’s way. Merlin felt the jolt in his arm from the impact, but it was a small price to pay for the look in Mordred’s eyes. It was not relief — he would have accepted death easily — but joy at seeing him unharmed. The padawan fought not to look or think on the injuries the man had sustained; to ignore the smell of burnt flesh. He couldn’t allow himself to wonder at the depth of the damage, or if help would come quickly enough. Those were distractions, and it was clear that he would need all his skill to face Count Peter.

 

The older man looked amused at the interruption, and took a small step back, disengaging their blades.

 

“I’d have thought you had learnt your lesson the first time around,” he teased, smirking. “You were such a bright kid.”

 

“But a slow learner,” Merlin’s comeback was accompanied with a slash, that the duellist batted away as if it were nothing.

 

Thrusting his hand out, he pushed the body away, even though the first part of the movement had already failed. It made Peter snigger, for even though he _was_ forced to move, it was not enough to disturb his balance. He stood, graceful, and twirled his wrist as if it were all a game for him.

 

“I’ll admit, you have peculiar talents — but it’ll not be enough. You’re not my match, child.”

 

“You talk too much,” Merlin complained, throwing his blade ahead to him, much like he had done with Morgause. The gesture didn’t catch the sith unaware, but it did wipe the smile from his face.

 

Maybe he would finally notice that he wasn’t such a green child as that.

 

Grasping the lightsaber once again, as it returned to his hand like some obedient boomerang, Merlin jumped ahead, both hands on the handle of his weapon, putting all his strength on the hit. There was undeniable pleasure in seeing that the older man needed to make an effort to avoid the blade, and he held up to the energy that was driving him. With a swarm of slashes, he continuously attacked the older man, who needed to step backwards to stay safe.

 

It was nothing like training, nothing like even duelling Arthur: there was here a desperation, a true sense of danger that brought a metallic taste to his mouth. Even though he was winning, there was nothing easy, nothing peaceful about it. Drops of sweat rolled through his spine, cold against the burning skin, and still they moved through the hangar, in a furious attempt to break each other’s defense. Speed was not the problem — but it was as if the Count could defend twice for each blow they traded. If only he had two weapons at once —

 

Mordred seemed to have caught his thought, for he immediately called on his padawan.

 

“Merlin!” his voice was firm, as if he was trying to hide the pain he must be in.

 

Without taking his eyes away from Peter, he reached towards his master, hand open and ready to receive his lightsaber. Peter watched him grab it, eyes shining, teeth bared. The challenge was clear, and Merlin was ready for it. Immediately he turned the blade on, blue and green in a swirling flow as a tornado eager to strike. Equally, the sith lord moved, decades of practice shining in each precise movement, interrupting the movements as quickly he could. Though every few moments he had to step backwards, the count did not seem worried.

 

He brought his blade down, cutting across from his shoulder, Mordred’s lightsaber coming up in the opposite direction to push away the red one. Merlin could almost feel the taste of victory, and then he was stumbling ahead, taken by the momentum of his own blow that had met nothing but air. Peter was in between his arms, in the mockery of a lover’s presence, his wrist moving with speed to turn and stab — not at his body, but at Mordred’s spare blade. The impact was such that the weapon flew from his hand, and even if he had kept it, it would’ve been useless: there was nothing left of the core inside the handle. He tried curling his fingers around the black vests of the older man, but they were too numb from the hit to work quickly enough.

 

“You two surprise me,” the man announced, brushing off his vests where Merlin would’ve caught them, a safe distance away. “Has the Jedi swordcraft degenerated so much in the last decade or are you trying to make fun of it?”

 

Panting, Merlin charged ahead, using all of his energy to strike — again and again — at the former Master. It was useless: even now, Peter could parry each blow, pushing him backwards once again until the padawan felt his body being pulled ahead, _towards_ the sith instead of away from him. He fought to keep his feet steady, his lightsaber in his hand. The green blade slid against the red one, keeping his body away from harm.

 

Most of his body, at least.

 

It was a sudden movement, too fast for him to see how it was done. Peter twisted his hand inwards, rolling away from Merlin’s blade, leaving himself vulnerable for a split of a second.

 

Merlin tried to use the advantage, but he could not.

 

There was no blade in his hand anymore.

 

His brain was slow to caught up with the truth of the situation: how could the lightsaber be gone?

 

He heard it hit the floor with a loud clatter, and then, his hand exploded in pain.

 

Looking down, he could see, along with the discarded hilt four slabs of flesh, perfectly cut.

 

His fingers were gone.

 

* * *

 

 

Arthur could barely believe his eyes when he walked into the hangar. The flurry of lightsabers was far too fast for his only-human eyes, but there was no mistaking the expertise that it demanded. Pulling his sword out of the scabbard, he advanced, aiming at the former Jedi. He was mid-way when the sound of something falling made him stop.

 

He could barely understand what he was seeing as Merlin trembled, walking backwards, and the count stepped ahead, smashing the pieces of flesh with his boots. He was ready to apply the final blow, and with Morgana’s words ringing in his ears, Arthur ran ahead. The sound of his metal armour clashing called their attention, both frozen in mid-action. It was but a second of distraction, but Merlin’s instincts kicked in and he scrambled back, away from the blade.

 

Arthur’s own sword was coming down quickly, ready to smash the count’s shoulder. He parried the slash, moving the sword away with a fizzle of his lightsaber. The man was a duellist, but so was Arthur — and this was no tourney, filled with niceties, but a conflict to the death. The king was far past courtesy, and he just kept pressing his attack on and on.

 

“Ah, more like it,” the older man panted, with a grin. “Still not enough.”

 

With a sweep of his hand, he made Arthur fly through the air. He had not been expecting it, but neither had Peter been expecting Merlin to be back into the fray. He held the blade in his right hand instead of the usual left, which meant he wasn’t nearly as skillful as usual, but still he was attacking in spite of his injury. Arthur ran back again, and Peter sent some piece of metal flying towards him. The warrior ducked, avoiding it, and ignoring the way it crashed to the back. Merlin was keeping him busy, and Arthur tried to cut in, right to the sword-arm. The former Jedi thrust both of his hands out, sending them skittering through the floor, but the blow did not have strength when thus spread. It was clear that, between them, they were wearing him out, but the man hadn’t become so renowned for nothing.

 

Quickly, desperately, he started to pull pieces of the hangar structure — pipes and conduits — and hull them through the air at them. All they could do was use their weapons to bat them away. Merlin’s lightsaber cut through some, and from the floor Mordred tried to send some of it back to their attacker.

 

Soon, it was clear that the count had the upper hand — not because they’d be hurt, but because he was walking back towards safety and escape. Merlin saw it the same time Arthur did, and he tried to run and intercept the older man, who wasted no time but used his hands to pull the middle column down. Pieces of the ceiling’s plaster fell along with it, but that wouldn’t have been enough to disturb Merlin’s dash if not for the grunt coming from behind them.

 

Mordred was fighting to stop the huge metal contraption from smashing him, his arm trembling because of his injury and making the whole thing shake as well. Arthur could only catch a glimpse of the padawan’s torn profile before he turned both his hands to the metal, trying to make it float. The king tried to pursuit their foe, but he was too far away, and, before the ship’s door closed, he could’ve sworn he saw the older man grin.

 

A loud rumble echoed through the chamber as the ship flew away, and, together, the two Jedi safely landed the metal column on the floor. For a second, Arthur could breath in relief — they were all alive, injured, but alive, with the grace of the gods.

 

Then, the same sound echoed again, and, looking up, they saw that cracks were spreading quickly through the ceiling. The whole hangar was about to come down on them. Rushing ahead, he picked up Mordred’s from the floor, helping him to stand up and shouldering his weight when his leg gave up on him. Merlin was coming as well, and, from up close Arthur could see he was pale with pain and the strain, but there was no time to worry about it now. The padawan picked up the other side, carefully, and together, the three of them ran away, back into the open landing pad, hoping they’d be safe from the destruction while their ride didn’t return.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 


	15. Chapter 15

 

For most of his life, Coruscant had been his home. He had been raised in the planet, in the fake peace of the Jedi temple. He had rushed through the under-levels as a teenager, looking for trouble, looking for a rush, looking for every and anything that denied the structure and the rigidity of the Jedi training. He’d learnt to party in the underbelly of the massive city-planet, he had found true misery and true blessings crossing it. He had let go of all of his rebellion in the middle of the Old Market, he had hidden and pursuit many through the sky lanes. He had raised his own apprentice, and watched as she in turn taught her own. He had politicked, danced, loved, and even hated all through the planet.

 

Now, he feared he must stay away from it for a good while.

 

It was part of the game, and not a farewell, merely a temporary goodbye. Still, made him feel maudlin as his ship descended through the air, towards the huge, mostly abandoned buildings of The Works. The sun was just coming up at this side of the planet, the pollution that could never be truly cleaned from the air painting the sunrise in blood colours. It was strangely fitting. Peter stood high as he pulled his cloak around himself and pressed the button to lower the ramp.

 

Only one person would think to come to this forsaken platform, so old that it was still painted with the symbols of the Republic from the Great Sith War. Only one person would bring Peter to under the nose of the enemy. They would not be long in arriving, but, for now, he could observe the place that was once his home and imagine when he would finally, gloriously, return.

 

His hand moved of its own accord towards the engraved symbol, fingers caressing it. Once, the Republic had been something he would fight for. A place of freedom, a place of power. Now, it was but shambles that refused to admit to their own state. Once, long ago, some visionary Jedi had understood that there was _more_ to the Force than formula and rules — but they had been cast away and vilified for daring to think beyond. Truth, however, could not be denied, and more and more of the Jedi learnt that there was more than one path.

 

War had come, and the old-fashioned moralists had won. And, soft hearted as they were, they had not vanquished their enemy. As a true Jedi should shun emotion and deny themselves the power of true justice, there had been no executions, no deaths — mere banishment. Clearly, those fools had never heard of “keep your friends close, your enemies closer.”

 

That had been their mistake, one that Peter was never to repeat. The ones that were now called “the fallen” left, but the punishment only gave them strength. Away from the eyes of the Jedi, they had grown strong, they had multiplied, they had become a hidden Empire, lurking in the shadows, biding their time to come and ruin those that had cast them away. In their arrogance, the Jedi hadn’t considered the possibility. It cost the Republic much.

 

War raged, as it inevitably would. Many fell, on both sides. Webs were spun in lies, deceit, and politics. The whole galaxy trembled as Jedi and Sith clashed for dominance, Republic and Empire being mere tools that they played with, lesser beings whose lives should be ruled by their will. It made the Jedi better, it made the Sith better. Adapt or die, that’s the rule of war, and both sides had known it. In those times, both Orders were something to be proud of.

 

Alas, in growing, their forces became spread thin. With its leader otherwise engaged, almost defeated, weakened, the Empire started to fall. The Republic grew proud, and, eventually, the Sith were brought low. This time, there was no space for pardon, even if the Jedi wished it so. The rabble had seen what happened when the power of those who could feel the Force was questioned, and they no longer trusted the Jedi to make such decisions by themselves. They demanded full reckoning, and they got it.

 

The Jedi, because of guilt or whatever reason, allowed them to take the true power from their hands. Weak and stupid, they let themselves be ruled by those who did not have their capabilities, as if they could truly know how to make decisions about what was best for all, as if they could see beyond their own miserly lives. Peter had always found that this was the biggest mistake the Jedi had ever made.

 

They let themselves be bound by others opinions. They tightened their control over their own. They made their rules even more unbending, to make sure none of their own would stray. They attached themselves to the formula, to the form, and swore to never change it.

 

They stopped changing.

 

They stopped evolving.

 

Nature was clear in its rule: the only other option was decay.

 

Extinction.

 

With a smile, Peter thought that the Jedi should thank them for the war, they were not what they had once been, and only through change they had any chance of surviving. One day, he’d show them all how he had been right, by his master’s side.

 

 

If Peter’s presence in the Force was a continuous hunger, ready to devour everything, his master’s was nothing — a void so intense that no one could find him. Once, it had awed Peter. Now, it was all the welcoming he looked for. He turned around, allowing his hand to fall away from the metal symbol he had been caressing, and staring straight at the hooded figure of the other Sith. He smiled, inclining is head sideways and nodding his welcome.

 

“The Force is with us, Master,” he offered, and he could feel the cold grin that answered the sentence.

 

“Welcome home, Lord Tyranus,” his master’s voice was raspy, as if even now he feared that some eavesdropper would catch their words and discover his true identity. “You have done well.”

 

“Thank you, my lord,” Peter replied, smirking. “It was as easy as taking candy from a child. They have no way out now — war has begun, and it can’t be denied. Even their biggest allies will end up advancing our plans.”

 

“Excellent,” his master answered, his grin becoming wider. “Everything is going as planned, except — I hear Arthur is still alive?”

 

“The brat is lucky,” Peter agreed, not fearing displeasure in the slightest. “Alas, I believe he will be of much better help to us alive than he could be dead — I know the plan — but I’ve found some… _interesting_ things in this last meeting that may be very productive for us all.”

 

“Good,” the other man said, with a gesture to approach. “Come, my old apprentice, we have much to discuss.”

 

For once, Peter was glad to just follow the lead.

 

* * *

 

The scene was the same, and yet, it was completely different. There was nothing new about the shape of the Senate, but the air in it vibrated in a completely different way now that war was inevitable. Morgana’s eyelids fluttered close as she allowed the tension to wash away from her; it’d do no good to allow it to get to her. All the anxiety around was bound to bring up images that might never come to pass, simply wished into existence by fear.

 

Whatever happened, she wasn’t going to allow herself to be guided by fear, much less someone else’s.

 

It felt like only yesterday she had been in the same building, listening to her brother open up Camelot’s — and Albion’s — borders to anyone that wished to learn their expertise in order to protect their worlds from the Separatist threat. At the same time, it could have happened a lifetime ago; so much had changed since: for her, for them. The whole fabric of the universe had been rewoven around the decisions that they had taken. Morgana was only grateful that Arthur had listened to her warning, even if he had been too late to completely avoid Merlin being defeated by Count Peter.

 

They could only hope that his loss wouldn’t be too much to bear. She had to trust that he’d rise above it.

 

This time around, instead of being in Camelot’s box, she was seating, alone, in the chamber that had long been reserved for the Jedi Order. None of the Council members would be able to make it, but it did not surprise her — there was much to do, and not enough time. Taliesin had been grateful when she offered to come, still trying to sort through Master Meer-Dieth’s final visions in hopes of finding anything that would help them. She wondered how soon they’d start poking _her_ for what she had seen, ready, now, to believe that which they had long doubted.

 

Light brightened around the chamber as the Supreme Chancellor’s podium came up, marking the beginning of the session. Under her gaze, the metal structure in the middle of the room rose. Everything was so big in the Senate that people tended to look tiny as dolls, but there was no mistaking Uther’s presence, righteousness burning as an unquenchable flame, shining so much that his companions were barely noticeable. _This_ was where he was comfortable, a Warlord, not a Politician. _This_ moment was were he would become an effective leader.

 

Morgana did not bother to pay attention to his words, it was the tone that said it all: warfare was his game and he would win it or die trying. She needed no reminder of the atrocities that happened in Genosis, they were all too fresh in her mind’s eye. Long she had wished to be free to fight, free to cross the galaxy and deal with its injustices, but in witnessing battle first hand, she was no longer so sure it was the place for her. For every movement, a dozen outcomes popped up in her head, and the multitude of possibilities were more likely to make one froze rather than help choosing the best option.

 

Often, there was no best option to choose from.

 

“The Clone Army has proved its worth in the field,” Uther said, as he finished relating the battle. “I’m putting forward a motion to order another million units, if the Senate so approves. Still, that’s not enough of a solution. Those won’t be ready for _years_ , and I hope we’ll never need them. _Every_ military under the Republic is being requested to help the war-effort.”

 

All over the House voices rose in complaint, never before, not even during the Great Sith Wars, had the Republic requested local armies to become part of the main fighting force. What most seemed to be forgetting was that back then, there had always been a Standing Army, even in periods of supposed peace. It now seemed naive of them to have completely give it up, although it had always been hailed as the proof of a developed society. It didn’t do them much good now.

 

The sound of the Speaker for the Senate’s staff hitting the floor echoed through the room, and the audience grew quieter. Uther’s face was stern as he stared down the last people speaking. Morgana couldn’t help but scoff, the chancellor was always one to love seeing how people reacted to his authority. She couldn’t, for the life of her, understand what Master Gaius liked about him so much. He raised his hand, palm turned out, as if it could stop their complaints.

 

“I know it is unheard off, but desperate times call for desperate measures. And, do not fool yourselves: these are desperate times. The separatists armies are made of tin and metal, they can be easily replaced and created by the dozens. The Republic cannot do the same — no, Kardick, don’t even bother starting your speech, we _cannot_ use droids ourselves, not without buying from the same manufacturers as they do and I’d never _trust_ them. Would you?”

 

The senator for Tormin did not bother answering, because it didn’t matter if any of them would risk it (foolish as it’d be); the Supreme Chancellor would never allow for them to be used. He was not man to take unnecessary risks, which was part of the reason why he was so effective as a commander. Uther’s hand was lowered, and his eyes lost some of their furious glint as he continued to speak.

 

“The chains of command will be left to each army’s discretion, but there must be one clear leader who will answer to the Republic’s Command,” there was clear steel in his voice, and there was room for arguing.

 

Morgana sighed, remembering Uther’s demand that the Jedi take charge of the Clone Army — which would still be the largest part of their fighting force, as there were few planets who kept a standing military. Even in Albion, the knights were the smallest part of their army, counting on levies to boost their ranks and the obligatory military training all teenagers went through to make them effective. However, in a conflict like this — all over the galaxy — they would not be called. The Council had balked at the transformation of their order into war leaders, but it remained the fact that there was no other body that could easily be placed in command of the clones. Most would treat them like less than humans, none would other were vowed to put the Republic first. It felt ironic to her that her _father_ would trust them in the field when he had always shown distrust and dislike of the Order as a whole. She supposed desperate times called for desperate measures.

 

“I value the importance of democracy, and listening many voices, but that’s no way to conduct war,” Uther announced, and Morgana snorted at the declaration. “There’s far too much sensitive information, and decisions must be taken at once, not after prolonged debate. Indecision equals death when it comes to fighting. The leaders that planets appoint will be expected to allow their underlying to act as deemed appropriate while also offering guidelines as to what’s expected of them. Besides that, they will, along with select Jedi and Senators, have a seat at the War Council, presided by myself, that shall keep tabs on each engagement and define overall strategies to stop the aggression from our enemies.”

 

The supreme chancellor turned around to his aide, nodding as if allowing for something, before turning back to his audience.

 

“Overall command in the field for our troops, however, will not be handled by me. A man must know when reaching his limits, and there’s only so much I can do all while making sure that the lives of those in the Republic continue as close to normality as possible. With that in mind, I’m naming the following people to command.”

 

It seemed to the Jedi that in the space of his breath, the whole of the Senate withheld theirs, wondering just what kind of people Uther had chose to lead them. There would, undoubtedly, be complaints later. It was impossible to please them all, and Uther had never bothered very hard with trying. Although she knew all the names, she found herself as anxious as the rest of them for his announcement.

 

“Fleet Admiral Tristan Reeds, to be promoted to High Admiral Tristan Reeds and in charge of the Republic Navy, as it stands. Ace Admiral Master Aufric to be named High Jedi Admiral, and in charge of Jedi ships, as well as any joint operations between Jedi and Republic Navies. Grandmaster Kilgharrah, to be named Commander-in-chief of the Grand Army of the Republic, and other members of the Jedi Council to be named High Jedi Generals; save for aforementioned Master Aufric. Our clone armies will answer directly to them,” Uther stopped, once more, before finishing his announcements. “King Arthur Pendragon of Camelot, to be named Commander-in-chief of Republic’s non-clone armies.”

 

There was an immediate reaction to this last announcement for, unlike the others, Arthur had held neither title nor rank with the Republic central government. It was obvious that private reasons had led to his choice, and not even his fame or his previous offers would stop tongues from waggling. She held her breath while she saw some movement in the central podium, and Arthur appeared, standing next to his father, his face a stone mask, ignoring all criticism. It was clear in the steel beneath blue eyes that neither men were ready to be questioned about it.

 

“I know what you are all saying,” Uther started, the _I care not_ implied in his tone. “But Arthur’s more than only my son, he’s a capable commander in his own right, with victories under his belt against very similar armies. He was, also, the only one looking for solutions for the incoming fighting before the Genosis Crisis, and because of that, bore a target at his back. To deny his contributions to the positive outcome in Geonosis would not only be unfair, but also dishonourable. Don’t think, for even one moment, that I won’t demand from him as much as from the others.”

 

That much no one could doubt. If the Chancellor’s love and pride in his children were well-known, how much he expected from them was always clear in his demeanour. Though her brother had long learn to keep his poise in public, she fancied she could see his dry gulping at these words.

 

“Considering this, and considering that his first-hand experience in the battle of Geonosis, we shall concede him the right to speak to you all about the war to come.”

 

Uther stepped back, leaving Arthur alone as the centre of the attention. His hair and armour glinted under the artificial lights, making his cape as bright as fresh spilled blood. For a second, it seemed to her that she could see dozens of him speaking to the senate, each of them looking more tired, new lines marring his face, his shoulders more strained, only the shadows of Merlin and Mordred behind him helping him to carry the burden… But neither Merlin nor Mordred was at the Senate. Eri-ka was the one in charge of Arthur’s security for the day, while Merlin was tended by medical personnel and Mordred finished his reporting on his mission and got their new assignment. Morgana blinked, noticing she had missed the beginning of his speech.

 

“There’s no questioning the bravery of the clones,” he was saying, his face serious. “It is not, however, enough — and I’m not speaking only of numbers, I speak of _honour_. Has the Republic grown so inert that it’ll allow others to fight their wars while just watching? Won’t we, citizens, take part in the defense of our homes? Will we allow for the breeding of soldiers only so that we can enjoy the amenities of civilisation?” He leaned, staring down at the senators. Although half of his audience was above him, it didn’t decrease the intensity of the gesture. “I refuse to believe that it is so. Every nation, every planet, every sector is made of people — brave, resilient people, people who are ready to fight for justice and peace — and the Republic stands only as we stand _together_ , and not only standing, but fighting. I had, in accordance to the Pact of Ashkanar, granted all those who wished training in Albion. Now, as commander of the citizen’s army, open our ranks to all those who wish to join — all those who believe in fighting for the Republic, even if coming from planets who hold no military. We shall not deny anyone the right to fight for their home, because this is what the Republic is: our home, our heart, our pride. Come!” Arthur’s voice vibrated with passion. “I will not lie: there will be battles, and there will be losses, but each life that is dedicated to this cause, is a life lived with honour and pride.We’re fighting a war, here, as old as civilisation. A war against tyranny, greed and spite. A war against those who see _people_ as no better than _numbers_. We will fight, not only for our lives, but for the future. The future of our planets. The future of the Republic. The future of the Galaxy,” he rose his hand, baring steel in the Senate, something that hadn’t been done in centuries, but it was union rather than defiance that influenced his gestures. The sword of the prophecy shone in his hand, while his voice vibrated, enrapturing all that saw him as if bond by a spell. “For the love of the Republic!”

 

Even those who had opposed to him could not help but to join his war-cry, while Morgana wondered just how many they were leading to die.

 

 

* * *

 

 

 _It_ _’s just wrong_ , Mordred thought, as he looked down from one of the Temple many balconies. The sun was just about to set, painting in a red glow what would naturally be white. Much like war, really. Downstairs, on the huge plaza that preceded the public entrance to the temple, he could see dozens of ships, as they prepared to be loaded. It was not all that different from the scene he had witnessed in Geonosis, except that instead of droids, clones walked inside in formation.

 

He had been sceptical of them when he had first reached Kamino, and while he still had his reserves, he had to admit that without them, they’d never have survived the confront in the arena or the bigger battle outside. It still felt unfair to have people programmed to fight for them, to have this be their whole life, their whole purpose, but it was out of his hands now. The senate had approved of the clones, and, in spite of Arthur’s grand speech, he wondered if any of those politicians would see the soldiers for what they truly were: humans. Sentient beings. People.

 

Mordred wouldn’t hold his breath for it. They’d probably think of them as a commodity, bought and sold, to be used for specific objectives. Their deaths would not be felt as the deaths of fellow citizens, but as a necessary evil. No one would honour the “unknown clone”, or speak of their bravery. The public would never truly know them, not as individuals, confusing their single face for a single soul. Just from gazing at them, Mordred knew it was not the case. He wondered if, in accepting this, the Republic was not building its own downfall — how _different_ were they, in the end, what sort of moral high ground did they stand on, that they’d accept slavery?

 

It made him uneasy to command a battalion of those men, men whose origins he could not trust, men he would need to believe in enough to have his life on their hands time and time again. Men that would share a voice and a face, but that he’d have to learn to treat as different people. Men he’d have to get to know, and yet, sacrifice in the name of the Republic. The upcoming confronts loomed in the horizon, and it made him uneasy.

 

Behind him, the doors to the High Council room opened, and he didn’t need to turn to recognise the presence coming towards him. Together, they stared at the sight beneath them, both weary of what was coming. It was not something they could look forward to. They might have been trained as guardians, sworn to protect the Republic, but that was very different from being made generals and responsible for attacking as well. While they had not exchanged a single word, he knew Master Deaton shared his concerns.

 

“This was not how victory should feel like,” he said, finally, breaking the silence, and he could feel the frown in the Master’s forehead even without looking.

 

“It was no victory,” he answered. “We’re at war. It is a defeat of all we stand for.”

 

Properly chastised, Mordred said no more, looking from the plaza to inside the temple. No one else had walked out of the Council Room, and yet, its emptiness reverberated through the building, the absences keenly felt. He couldn’t help but make a mental count of the Jedi in the High Council. Master An-hor-ra was in Kamino, working with them on how to best prepare for the inevitable injuries from the clones, as well as running tests to know all they could about their physical and mental capabilities. Master Jen-Fer was there, too, overseeing their training to make sure the clones would integrate perfectly with their Jedi commanders while Master Aufric oversaw the blockade of the planet to keep it safe from a separatist attack. As the system where he had long worked threatened to join the separatists, Master Isel-dir went to try and smooth the situation, and Master Ruadan had been dispatched in a mission to try and stop the droid army from landing at Christophsis. Gaius had been dispatched to try and work with the government in Ryloth. No one outside the council had any idea where Master Alator and Master Grettir were, but considering how most of their work was done in secret, no one expected to. Master Aglain would never again sit in the council, and his substitute had not yet been chosen. The only ones inside the room were Master Taliesin, head bowed low, as if he couldn’t bear the weight of his duties, and Master Kilgharrah, eyes closed, deep in meditation.

 

“I’ve relinquished my title as Master of the Order.” Deaton’s voice was small, yet it startled Mordred.

 

“Why?”

 

The older man gesture ahead, encompassing the army getting ready to be sent to different parts of the galaxy.

 

“Your friend saw it all, and yet, I was too blind to see it. I’ve allowed myself to be so concerned with the everyday problems of the Order that I no longer saw the big picture. This war — I _need_ to be able to see the big picture. So I gave up the position as Master of the Order. There are others that can oversee the workings of the Jedi. The Council needs — vision. It needs a leader that can see beyond what I can. The Grandmaster will announce it soon enough, and then — we’ll see who the Council chooses.”

 

Mordred nodded, though he was still surprised at this turn of events. For most of his life, Master Deaton had been the leader of the High Council just as Master Kilgharrah was the leader of the whole Order. The two of them had always worked together to make sure the Jedi walked in the path of Light. He couldn’t even start to imagine how different things would be now. He sighed looking again at the soldiers marching towards their posts, blindly accepting their destiny to die in a war none of their making. Deaton was right — this was no victory. The taste of ashes filled his mouth.

 

“Where is your padawan?”

 

“He must be overseeing King Arthur’s last hours in Coruscant. He’ll be accompanying His Majesty to Camelot; completing his mission before returning to Coruscant and the Council’s order’s.”

 

Silence stretched for so long after it that Mordred looked to his side, gazing at Deaton’s expression. There was a frown that marred the master’s face, and he felt like he didn’t want to hear the words about to come.

 

“You might have been right about it being a bad choice of a mission for Merlin. He seems overtly attached to King Arthur, and I fear that he is not yet ready to deal with the consequences of being so close to someone,” the older man took a deep breath, looking ahead. “I may not see far but — a blind man can see, and —” Deaton’s voice died for a moment, and Mordred did not reply, his cheeks burning in thinking that his failure in showing the difference between feeling and falling was clear to everyone. “Don’t leave him alone to part from Arthur,” the Master’s voice was softer than usual. “Go with him, Mordred, and keep him safe, even from himself. For all that I don’t believe in prophecies, he may be our best hope.”

 

And that, more than anything else, made Mordred sure that they had never been further away from winning anything.

 

* * *

 

 

Arthur felt completely exhausted as he entered the living room of Camelot’s official apartment in Coruscant. He knew without seeing that the first signs of sunset were appearing in the sky and the place would be bathed in warm golden light, but he didn’t feel like he could enjoy it at the moment. There was far too much weighting in on him.

 

“I saw your speech.”

 

The voice rang through the apartment, vibrating right inside Arthur’s chest. He snapped his head, surprised at the presence. In the few days since they had returned to the capital Merlin had been locked in the medical facilities as they treated his hand, and the king hadn’t been expecting to see him. The Jedi remained where he were, staring outside at the setting sun. Through the glass, Arthur could see only the reflection of the black of his gloves, obi and tabard on top of an overtunic of the darkest brown, but nothing of his face. Ignoring the beating of his heart, be matched the padawan’s unemotional tone.

 

“Not my best.”

 

He stepped closer, but not too fast, as if approaching a wild animal back in Camelot’s forests. There was something in the air that made him feel as if Merlin was about to break, and Arthur had no wish to see him unleash his temper once more. Although it was unlikely that someone with his training wouldn’t notice his approach, he did not move towards him, merely shrugging at his comment.

 

“I think you’re wrong. Those were powerful words. People will flock to fight beside you.”

 

It was the king’s turn to gesture with his shoulders, unsure about the latest comment. More than the words, there was something ominous about his tone of voice.

 

“From the numbers we saw, I think it’s fair to say we’ll see a lot of fighting,” he offered, eventually, when the silence had stretched too much. Merlin agreed with a nod, his arms crossed, his shoulder blades clearly tense underneath the layers of clothing. “We can just hope to keep losses to a minimum.”

 

“It’s a very unpredictable time,” answered Merlin, his voice gone deep, deeper than Arthur had ever seen. “One can only wonder where we will end up.”

 

Arthur was relieved to find out the source of the padawan’s mood. Not that he didn’t understand it — in fact, he had done a lot of effort not to think about it, about the dangers Merlin would be facing, about what could happen. Merlin had lost literal parts of himself in the Battle of Genosis but he was blessedly alive; Arthur did not want to consider just how much more he could lose in the upcoming fights. The idea that he wouldn’t be there to save Merlin… But he was no helpless boy, even if he couldn’t take on the most well-known duelling champion of the Jedi Order by himself. Arthur was doing him no favours in treating him like a damsel in distress, as if he needed constant saving. No, he knew better than that, he knew that the padawan was a mighty warrior of his own accord.

 

“We will go where duty takes us,” he replied, finally. “Go where we are needed. Where we can do most good.”

 

Once again, the other man nodded. Silence took over the room, both lost in their own thoughts and considerations of the war to come. This time, however, it was a shared feeling, and the two men were comfortable even without words being said. _How different_ , Arthur pondered, _from the last time we were in this place_. They had talked and laughed and bantered like the young men they were. Now, everything had changed — in the galaxy, in them. As much as the king hadn’t wanted to admit, the weeks in-between the two events had transformed how he saw Merlin forever. Gone was the boy, next to him stood a man, one he was honoured to have fought with.

 

“I’m sure you’ll make us all proud,” Arthur reassured him, and Merlin snorted.

 

“I haven’t been doing a very good job of that,” there was some dark mirth in his voice. “So much for Nimueh’s hopes and Mordred’s sacrifices.”

 

Arthur shook his head and snorted. He knew so very well what it was like to compare yourself to impossible standards and stern mentors, but he did not believe it to be the reality when it came to Merlin. It was clear that Mordred valued him immensely and Nimueh had been dead these past ten years.

 

“No one’s asking you to single-handedly win the war, that would be too much to ask of anyone” Arthur frowned at his own words. “Though I don’t doubt my dad expects me to.”

 

That made Merlin laugh, even if it wasn’t the usual bright sound, but more subdued. The king smiled, too, looking at the padawan next to him. He noted the improvement in the Jedi’s humour, and seized the opportunity to ask the question that he had wanted to ask as soon as he walked in.

 

“I thought Master Eri-ka was in charge of my security now,” he started, unsure how to phrase things. “I thought they wouldn’t let you out yet.”

 

Any sign of levity left the man’s expression, his covered hand gripping tighter as his right arm as he shook his head.

 

“The Council is still debating on the assignments. Mordred’s told me to accompany you to Camelot and leave you there. They’ll have someone in charge of it by the time you return to the Capital.” Merlin’s voice was perfectly polite, but distant. “But if you’d rather have her, I can stay.”

 

“No!” Arthur was not proud of the eagerness in his voice, so he tried to make his regard clear without sounding like an idiot. “No,” he repeated, looking outside to mask his emotions. “I’m happy that you’re here.”

 

To reinforce his words, the king put his hand on the younger man’s shoulder. He felt Merlin tremble under his touch and retreat more into himself. Questions darted through his brain, but it didn’t take long for answers to come.

 

“War is dangerous,” the padawan said, as if it was the sort of thing that needed stating. Arthur turned to look at him, and Merlin whipped his head back towards the landscape and away from his friend, as if he couldn’t face him while he spoke. “It would be foolish to… To allow ourselves to become attached… Not that you are… attached… Or me. Jedi don’t do attachment.”

 

Once the King might have believed this was the crux of the problem, but now, it seemed like a useful excuse to pull himself away. Still, it wasn’t as if he could disagree with the logic underneath it. He hadn’t wanted to face it before, he had avoided thinking about it, but it was clear that the emotions they had felt while imprisoned in Genosis and the actions they had provoked were to be nothing but memories. The idea that it was done and over it tore him apart, but it was for the best. There was nothing that lay in such path but madness: secrets, lies, vows broken and lives risked. They shouldn’t — couldn’t — pretend otherwise, even if they wouldn’t say it in so many words.

 

“That’s wise,” he forced himself to agree, ignoring how the words seemed to scratch is throat bloody. “I wouldn’t want you to have problems with the Order.”

 

That made the padawan snort, self-deprecating.

 

“Oh, I’m always in trouble with the Order,” he confessed, a bleak grin in the corder of his mouth. “They’re not happy with me charging ahead in Genosis. Say I needlessly risked our lives,” a shrug. “They’re not wrong.”

 

“I’d say you more than paid the price for it,” Arthur replied, and Merlin glanced at his hand.

 

“Maybe,” the younger man conceded, leaning his head to the side.

 

For a moment, the king was silent, looking at the way the Jedi’s grip tightened once again.

 

“Could they… Could they fix it?” he finally allowed himself to ask, and Merlin shook his head noncommittally.

 

“After a fashion,” he sighed. “It’s not… It looks terrible, but it’ll do. I’ll just have to keep my hand hidden for the rest of my life and I should be able to pass as normal.”

 

The bitterness in his voice was painful even for Arthur, and that, more than anything, made him _need_ to comfort Merlin in any way he could.

 

“Let me see it.”

 

“No,” the tips of the padawan’s ears grew pink in embarrassment. “No, I…”

 

“ _Let me see it,_ ” Arthur repeated in a mix of commanding and pleading.

 

Reluctantly, Merlin uncrossed his arms and let them hang down. He did not move to show the result of the medical procedures, and Arthur took matters in his own hands. His right hand curled around the younger’s man’s wrist, bringing it up and closer to his face and then he used his left hand to carefully pull out the leather glove the padawan was using to mask the place.

 

Although Count Peter’s cut had been neat, almost deliberate, the damage to the hand had been naturally irregular. It started right above the middle joint in his index finger and followed down diagonally until almost the knuckle beneath Merlin’s smallest finger. They had not been able to retrieve any of it, and the best that could be done was to fit the Jedi with robotics. The warm flesh that had not so long ago touched Arthur’s skin had been replaced by cold metal. The muscle and sinew that had gripped his clothes furiously had been substituted by screws and circuitry. Gone was the delicate grace of Merlin’s hands, though there was some deadly beauty in the result. The king had but a moment to look before the Jedi pulled it away, clearly ashamed.

 

It was all his fault. If he hadn’t fell down — if he had been there faster — If… Arthur was having none of that shame. Forcefully he pulled Merlin’s hand back, and the padawan stepped closer, startled by the sudden violence in his movement. The king didn’t apologise, just brought the member close to his face and, slowly, leaned forwards, touching it with his lips — first the pink, than the ring finger. As he kissed the cybernetic tip of Merlin’s middle finger, his eyes looked up to meet the padawan’s. Arthur had started it as a gesture of acceptance, of healing, but there was more than that in the Jedi’s eyes and in the way his pupil’s widened. His mouth touched the index finger, and without him meaning to, it became a slow, sensuous caress as his lower lip rubbed on the metal. Merlin gasped at the touch, and it was all gone: all his caution, all his best thought of excuses, all his restraint.

 

“Merlin…” he pleaded, because he could not, not again, make the gesture. If he was the fall headlong into madness, he could not do it alone.

 

The padawan did not need anything more. He leaned forward,crashing his mouth against Arthur’s. The hand fell down, forgotten as they kissed furiously, desperately, not knowing if they’d ever have more than a few days for emotions that seemed far too big to be fully lived in such a short time. The king did not notice the lack of finesse in his movements, the scraping of teeth against skin, the bumping of their noses because all he could concentrate on was in their mingled breaths, following the same desperate pattern, rushing like their hearts beating at the same desperate tempo, as if their very lives had been intertwined under Genosis’s ground.

 

“The war…” Merlin started, pulling away from Arthur, but the King was having none of it.

 

“Fuck the war,” he answered, diving back for another kiss, pressing his mouth against the padawan’s fervently, but the younger man moved away from the caress. The blond looked at him, his hopes crushed, and there was steel in Merlin’s expression.

 

“It won’t part us,” The Jedi continued, ignoring the outburst, and Arthur could have laughed in relief, but he would not risk it being interpreted the wrong way.

 

“Nothing will,” he promised, and their lips met once again as if they were magnets.

 

Merlin’s fingers gripped the padded leather jerkin that Arthur had been using beneath his armour, hauling their bodies closer even as the kiss deepened. The king responded by tugging the padawan by the dark obi, using it as leverage to drag him backwards. It was not something that they needed to think about, it was clear by the intensity of their kissing where it was led. Memory alone guided his steps back to the room where, not so long ago, he has urged Merlin not to grow up so fast. Now, it seemed like none of them had a choice, and the best thing to do was to make the most of the time they had.

 

They were panting as they parted, it seemed to take Merlin a second to realise just where they had stopped. When he did, his eyes grew wide just as he licked his lips, and Arthur was undone by it alone. The younger man leaned in, their lips entering a wild dance while their hands showed just how deft they were as they pulled pieces of clothing away. The jerkin was the first to be sacrificed, falling down just as the back of Arthur’s knees hit the bed. He allowed himself to fall on the soft mattress, using the momentum to yank the sash away. Merlin wasted no time, moving to remove his shirt, and Arthur rose his arms, letting him, enjoying equally the warmth of his human digits and the coldness of his robotic ones.

 

It was only after he had removed the tabard and outer tunic that Arthur truly wrapped his head about what they were going to do — it was not simple pleasure, there were so many, too many, emotions involved. No attachment was already impossible for them, even stopping it now, more so if they continued it. It was evident by the fevered way they kept kissing, by the febrile touch of Merlin’s hands on his naked skin, by the panting sound of their breaths that their hearts were very much on the line. Had it not been so, he could have just continued, but as there was love — _yes_ , he was now willing to name it — he had to speak before it was too late.

 

“The Order…” he started, only to be interrupted by Merlin, who had just kicked out his boots violently, sweeping them away with a gesture of his hand and sending them crashing against the wall.

 

“Fuck the Order,” the padawan echoed his earlier answer, and never before had a blasphemy sounded so saintly. He pulled Merlin closer, kissing him again, the only belief that mattered now was that in what they felt, flowing through their pores, flooding their minds, hearts and bodies. There were no words that could possibly explain what it meant for him that Merlin was putting him ahead of the other things he was — warrior, padawan, Jedi. It was an act of faith, and the only prayer he could offer was through actions. Instead of chants, his lips delivered kisses, spread from Merlin’s hairline to his jaw, peppering his high cheekbones, his oversized ears, his plush lips, down to his chin and trailing his long neck. Arthur kissed through his shoulderblades, around his nipples, rub his face in the lightly haired chest, followed it down to his hips, hands stripping the younger man of the last of his clothing, breathing in the smell of his body.

 

With a quick gesture, he wrapped his arm around the padawan’s hips and pulled him down to the bed, rolling them over until he was on top. Arthur ignored the hard, throbbing dick flushed against his neck, keeping with his kisses that were nothing short of worshipping as he ran his lips against the coarse hair of his lover’s legs. Merlin was pliant in his arms as he rolled him again, hiding his face in the soft skin of Merlin’s bottom, moving up through his back, up until he reach the Jedi’s nape, their bodies levelled against each other, their breaths short.

 

Merlin moved away from his, and the two men lay side by side, staring at each other in wonder for a moment before kissing again. Arthur ran his hands through the Jedi’s side, feeling the silky skin, so milky it almost shone, such a contrast to the face that had been constantly under a dozen suns, though none of them could shine as intensely as his blue eyes as he called his name.

 

“Arthur…”

 

He sounded almost pleading, but it was not right: Merlin has already offered so much just by allowing _them_ to happen, there was no reason for him to beg. Arthur was the one that should be the one imploring for any crumb he could offer, and yet, the padawan was the one slinking back to the floor, kneeling in between the king’s legs, his lips and tongue exploring sensitive skin, turning what some would call sin into bliss.

 

There was nothing he could do but yield all of him, let himself sink in the sensations being called, drowning in something smooth and golden that seemed to envelop them bringing peace even as his breath got short and his throat let out desperate moans, beseeching for release in untried but clearly devoted lips. Spreading his legs, Arthur pulled Merlin up, kissing him again and again.

 

“I’ve never…” The tip of Merlin’s ears grew pink, but he did not seem afraid. The king could only smile.

 

“Don’t worry,” he whispered, raising his hips. “I just want to feel you…”

 

The two men blush as green boys, fumbling with beddings and gel, with positions and words. Although Arthur had done it all before, it felt different, new, sacred as the padawan pushed inside, their eyes locked and their breaths mingling. He could do little but hold him close, relaxing as much as he could, accepting the other man’s body into his own deliberately. Arthur gasped, a blend of pain and relief, and Merlin captured the sound with his lips, pulling Arthur down on his lap.

 

Then, once again, Arthur felt himself lost as he had when they had kissed in Genosis — as if his body was no longer his alone, or if he didn’t belong only to it, but to a whole universe that started and ended between their bodies. All separations, all differences, all secrets fell down as they came together, and it was as if there was a whole new set of senses that he had never used before, brimming with the life that overflowed from them to light everything around. There was no time but the tempo of their bodies moving together, no sound but the sound of their moaning, no smell but the smell of their skin, no sight but the man in front of him — and, at the same time, they were connected to every other living thing in the universe, part of the same web, bond together. The intensity of it all was too much for him, for them.

 

As they came, Arthur’s intertwined his fingers with Merlin’s and vowed, without words, to never let go.

 

They had a destiny together, after all.

 

* * *

 

 

The temple seemed hollow with so many absences. His steps echoed louder than usual as he approached the Council chamber. It was habit, more than anything, that led him there. Most of the Council had been assigned to their own missions, away from the Capital. Soon, he would leave too, and only the Grandmaster would remain in Coruscant. Master Deaton took a deep breath before walking in, unsurprised to see Master Kilgharrah sitting in his usual spot, wings folded as he meditated.

 

There was, really, nowhere else where they should be.

 

The golden eyes of the older Jedi opened, piercing him as they had always done. All of his life, Kilgharrah had been there with ready answers and a strong guiding hand that made sure they were all — Jedi and Republic alike — safe. Now, even if most could not decipher it through reptilian features and Jedi posturing, uncertainty made itself known. That, more than anything else, made Deaton fear for what was to come. There hadn’t been war in such scale since the Sith Wars, and it did not surprise him that they were behind this conflict as well.

 

Sith, Deaton was now ready to name them, even if Master Kilgharrah held out hope that his once-pupil was simply misguided, not completely committed to the Dark Side. Deaton had never been an optimist and Peter had never done anything by halves. He could not see the man starting now — no, if he were to fall, he’d rush headlong into it, body and soul, for better or worse.

 

The two masters stared at each other for a while, none speaking. Most words would be useless. They had debated strategies and supply lines, they had discussed Uther and Peter, they had analysed the economics and politics of the war. Everything that could be controlled was under control, every contingency was in place. It was the ever-changing, the fantastic, the mystical that had brought him back after the meeting.

 

“You’re wondering if it’s wise to leave Arthur and Merlin together for so long,” Kilgharrah said, his voice the same as ever. “We need them together — the Galaxy need them to work together. There’s nothing we can do to avoid it.”

 

“So the seers say,” Deaton failed at keeping his disdain from his voice, but a Jedi, even a Master, was not meant to be perfect. “I just wonder if they can be trusted — if we’re not tempting them into failure.”

 

For once, Master Kilgharrah had no ready answer. The great dragon just looked back at Deaton, his eyes revealing nothing about  what truly was in his head.

 

“We can only hope we aren’t,” he finally offered, and that was all the reassurance he was about to get.

 

“Then hope we will,” he agreed, folding his arms as the ships carrying clone soldiers rose, one after another, from the square behind them, a whole fleet ascending through the skies to bring peace, justice and hope to where the Confederation had spread fear and strife.

 

There was nothing else they could do but face the oncoming war. 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> ... Phew! That was it! 2 years in the making, but here it is, finished.
> 
> I still have, naturally, more to say on this verse - hopefully, nanowrimo will allow me to explore at least the next part of the story!
> 
> Thank you for sticking with this!


End file.
